ntlUOLlf  CHONS  j 

\  SEVENTY  YHAR 

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RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN  OLD  MAN 
SEVENTY  TEARS  IN  DIXIE 

1827-1897 


J5 . 0  u£jLa**  - 


RECOLLECTIONS 

OF  AN  OLD  MAN 

Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 

1827-1897 

BY 

D.    SULLINS 

v 

CLEVELAND 

TENN. 


SECOND    EDITION 


1910 

THE  KING  PRINTING  COMPANY 

LXKOI  PREIS 

BRISTOL,  TENNESSEE 


B  >C  6 


S  * 


INTRODUCTION 

HOUGH  not  an  old  man,  my 
memory  goes  back  for  somewhat 
more  than  half  a  century.  The 
things  that  happened  then  are 
as  clear  in  my  mind  as  if  they 
took  place  only  yesterday. 

In  1854-55,  or  thereabouts,  Brother  Sullins 
— they  did  not  call  any  preacher  Doctor, 
except  Sam'l  Patton,  those  days — was  station 
preacher  in  my  native  town  of  Jonesboro. 
How  distinctly  he  stands  out  before  me  as  he 
then  was:  six  feet  and  over  tall,  with  a  great 
shock  of  coal  black  hair  on  his  head,  blue-grey 
eyes  that  kindled  when  he  talked  to  you,  and  a 
voice  that  could  be  as  caressing  as  a  mother's 
and  as  martial  as  a  general's  on  the  field  of 
battle. 

My  mother  was  a  Methodist  of  the  old 
pattern,  and  Brother  Sullins  was  often  in  the 
home.  Two  of  my  sisters  went  to  school  to 
him  and  loved  him  dearly.  In  social  life  he 
was    a    charmer,    often    breaking    out    into 


* 


42527' 


Introduction 


mirthful  stories.  Now  and  then  he  did  not 
hesitate  to  play  the  boy.  But  for  the  scruples 
of  his  flock,  I  am  sure  he  would  have  been 
glad  on  the  frosty  October  mornings  to 
follow  the  hounds  after  a  fox;  for  the  breath 
of  the  country  was  in  his  nostrils. 

He  was  even  then  a  wonderful  preacher; 
at  least  there  was  one  little  boy  in  his  con- 
gregation that  thought  so.  But  I  loved  best 
to  hear  him  exhort  and  sing.  Once  in  the 
midst  of  a  great  revival,  he  came  down  out  of 
the  pulpit,  his  arms  outstretched,  the  tears 
streaming  from  his  eyes,  and  walked  up  and 
down  the  aisles,  beseeching  his  hearers  to 
accept  Christ.  There  was  nothing  studied 
in  it,  and  the  spontaneity  of  it  thrilled  me. 
I  wonder  if  he  dreamed  how  much  he  was 
stirring  my  childish  heart.  And  how  he 
could  sing!  There  were  no  choirs  in  those 
days,  and  he  did  not  need  one,  as  he  was 
entirely  competent  to  "set  and  carry"  any 
tune.  Now  and  then  he  would  sing  a  solo 
before  the  morning  service,  usually  one  of  the 
great  old  Methodist  hymns;  but  occasionally 
something  new. 

When  he  went  away,  everybody  was  sorry; 


Introduction 


the  whole  town  was  devoted  to  him.  It  was 
a  long,  long  time  ago!  One  whole  generation 
has  since  passed  into  eternity,  and  a  large  part 
of  another.  But  in  the  providence  of  God, 
Brother  Sullins — now  and  for  many  years 
Doctor  Sullins — still  lingers  with  us;  the 
old  man  eloquent  of  the  Holston  Conference, 
every  man's  friend  and  the  friend  of  every 
man.  More  than  four  score  years  have 
passed  over  his  head.  He  has  been  preacher, 
teacher,  soldier. 

A  few  years  ago,  at  the  urgent  request  of 
many  friends,  he  began  to  write  some  remi- 
niscences of  his  early  life  for  publication  in 
The  Midland  Methcdtst.  He  will  not  be 
offended  when  I  say  that  even  those  who 
knew  him  best  were  surprised  at  the  facility 
with  which  he  used  his  pen.  They  had 
recognized  him  as  an  almost  incomparable 
orator,  but  that  very  fact  had  perhaps  blinded 
them  to  his  other  gifts.  Anyhow  the  reminis- 
cences were  eagerly  read,  with  a  constant 
demand  for  more.  Ever  since  the  series 
ended  there  has  been  a  succession  of  inquiries 
as  to  whether  they  would  not  be  put  into  a 
book. 


Introduction 


And  here  they  are!  From  New  River  to 
Lookout  Mountain,  they  will  be  read  again 
and  again,  often  with  tears  and  sometimes 
with  laughter.  I  take  great  pleasure  in 
introducing  them  to  the  general  public.  The 
man  who  wrote  these  papers  ought  to  have 
written  more. 


itju^?, 


Nashville,  Tenn., 

February  14th,  1910. 


PREFACE. 

FTER  what  Bishop  Hoss  has 
said  in  the  introduction  to  these 
Recollections,  and  Dr.  Burrow, 
who  was  editor  of  The  Midland 
Methodist  while  they  were  pass- 
ing through  its  columns,  said,  it  is  not  necessary 
to  explain  further,  the  why,  and  the  how, 
of  this  little  book.  It  will  be  seen  also  that 
the  first  chapter  is  largely  prefatory.  Only 
this  I  will  say,  that  but  for  the  repeated  re- 
quests of  Dr.  Burrow  and  other  friends, 
for  some  reminiscences,  they  would  never 
have  been  begun,  and  but  for  encouragement, 
after  the  first  few  chapters  had  appeared,  they 
would  never  have  been  continued.  Their 
appearance  in  this  book  form,  is  in  compliance 
with  a  request  of  the  Holston  Conference  in 
annual  session.  So  I  say  Brethren,  I  am 
not  so  much  publishing  a  book  as  that  I  am 
publishing  my  obedience  to  your  wish. 

Dr.  Burrow  and  the  Conference  are 
responsible  for  the  gathering  up  and  preserving 
of  this  "basket  of  fragments. " 


Cleveland,  Tenn., 

February,  1910. 


JJ.0laJ^U^^' 


CONTENTS 


I.  Biographical    . 

II.  Early  History 

III.  Our  Family  Altar  . 

IV.  Camp  Meetings 

V.  Camp  Meetings — Cont'd 

VI.  The  Simple  Life     . 

VII.  Our  Country  Life 

VIII.  Love  Feasts  and  Class 
Meetings 

IX.  Early  School  Days 

X.  Early  Days  at  Emory 

XL  When  and  Where 

Licensed 

XII.  A  Memorable  Day  . 

XIII.  Interesting  Incidents 

XIV.  Cherokee  Preachers 
XV.  Death  of  James  H.  Card- 
well      .... 

XVI.  My  Third  Appointment 

XVII.  Revival  in  School 

XVIII.  Marriage    . 

XIX.  Year  at  Chattanooga 

XX.  Great  Revival 

XXL  Chattanooga  Revival 
— Continued 

X2ll.  Year  1858-59      . 

XXIII.  Days  of  Secession  . 


18 

25 

3i 
40 

56 

65 

I3 
82 

92 
100 
108 
119 

127 

134 
142 
149 

I5fJ 
107 

J74 
183 
192 


11 


Contents 


XXIV. 

XXV. 

XXVI. 

XXVII. 

XXVIII. 

XXIX. 

XXX. 

XXXI. 

XXXII. 

XXXIII. 

XXXIV. 
XXXV. 

XXXVI. 
XXXVII. 

XXXVIII. 
XXXIX. 

XL. 

XLI. 

XLII. 

XLIII. 

XLIV. 


Nineteenth  Tennessee 
Regiment 

Commissioned  Quarter- 
master 

Still  at  Shiloh 

Shooting  a  Deserter 

Camp  at  Tangipahoa 

At  Knoxville 

Refugees     . 

Wytheville  Raid    . 

Refugees  on  Cripple 
Creek 

Camp  Meeting  at  Old 
Asbury 

Camp  Meeting  Incident  303 

Dr.  Kennedy's  Expe- 
rience 

War  Over  . 

To  Wytheville  After 
The  War 

Pioneers  of  Bristol 

At  Emory  and  Henry 
College    . 

At  Emory  and  Henry 
College — Cont'd     . 

History  of  Centenary 

Still  at  Centenary 

Money  and  Money- 
Making    404 

Final  Words      .       .  •      .  414 


200 

212 
221 
231 

242 
252 

262 
273 

284 
294 


312 
322 

332 
343 

355 

367 
377 
391 


12 


BIOGRAPHICAL 


\mwm 


OD  willing,  I  will  furnish  some 
brief  chapters  for  our  Midland, 
made  up  of  the  recollections 
of  a  lifetime.  This  I  do  at 
the  request  of  the  Editor,  and 
of  friends.  To  go  back  along  the  way  I 
have  come  will  be  for  the  most  part  pleasant 
enough;  for  only  now  and  then  we  shall 
pass  places  where  I  cried  when  first  there, 
and,  thank  God!  these  are  few  and  far  be- 
tween ;  while  long  stretches  of  sunshine, 
barely  flecked  with  shadows,  make  up  the  rest 
of  the  way.  My  purpose  is  to  write  recollec- 
tions of  the  times  in  which  I  have  lived,  and  of 
some  of  the  men  and  women  I  have  known 
personally,  and  preach  a  little  as  I  go  along. 
I  can  hardly  suppose  that  my  individual 
career  by  itself  would  interest  the  reading 
public;  but  interwoven  with  the  men  and 
times  of  the  last  eighty  years,  it  may  become 
worth  reading.  I  always  want  to  know  who 
is  talking,  as  well  as  what  he  is  talking  about. 


13 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

So  I  hope  it  will  not  be  set  down  to  my  vanity 
if  in  this  opening  chapter  I  introduce  myself 
by  a  little  autobiography  and  some  family 
traditions  and  ancestral  history. 

I  was  born  two  miles  west  of  Athens, 
McMinn  County,  Tenn.,  in  July,  1827.  And 
I  was  well  born.  That  is,  I  was  born  of  well 
developed,  healthy,  sensible,  religious  parents, 
and  on  a,  farm.  All  of  which  is  much  in  my 
favor,  but  nothing  to  my  credit.  And  here  I 
begin  thus  early  to  thank  God.  First,  that 
I  was  born  at  all,  and  then  that  I  was  not 
born  cross-eyed  nor  club-footed  nor  deaf  nor 
blind  nor  of  cranky,  irreligious  parents.  That 
last  clause  is  a  climax.  I  fear  that  we  stalwart 
men  and  graceful  women,  each  with  five  good 
senses,  a  sound  body,  and  lithe  limbs,  do  not 
sufficiently  appreciate  the  parental  care. 

My  ancestors  were  Scotch-Irish.  I  re- 
member while  yet  a  boy  to  have  heard  my 
father  tell  that  somewhere  about  1750  his 
father  and  two  brothers,  came  from  "the 
old  country"  to  America.  These  brothers 
were  Scotch-Irish,  and  all  unmarried.  They 
separated  after  they  arrived  in  this  country. 
One  stopped  in  Pennsylvania,  and  married 
there;  one  went  to  North  Carolina,  married, 


14 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


and  located  near  Guilford  Courthouse;  the 
third  came  to  Virginia,  married  a  Miss  Mays 
in  Halifax  County,  and  settled  on  Dan  River. 
This  was  my  grandfather.  Here  my  father 
was  born.  When  he  was  twelve  years  old, 
his  father  came,  among  the  first  pioneers, 
to  Tennessee,  and  settled  on  Poplar  Creek, 
in  Knox  (now  Roane)  County,  near  Oliver 
Springs,  in  1795.  Here  my  father  grew  up  to 
manhood  in  the  wilderness  of  the  new  country. 
He  had  one  brother  (Joseph)  and  three 
sisters.  These  sisters  married  Dr.  William 
Farmer,  Joseph  Stubblefield  and  William 
Gent.  Some  of  the  descendants  of  these 
families  are  still  here  in  East  Tennessee. 
Rev.  Joseph  A.  Stubblefield,  D.  D.,  who  for 
many  years  was  President  of  Centenary 
Female  College,  is  the  grandson  of  the  Stubble- 
field who  married  my  paternal  aunt. 

There  were  no  schools  in  those  days, 
save  an  occasional  "subscription  school/ ' 
kept  in  the  winter.  Father  told  us  that  he 
attended  one  of  these  and  learned  to  spell  a 
little.  This,  he  said,  was  all  the  schooling  he 
ever  got.  When  he  was  twenty-one  he  married 
my  mother,  Miss  Rebecca  Mitchell,  daughter 
of   Rev.    Morris    Mitchell,    a    pioneer    local 


IS 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

preacher  of  the  Methodist  Church.  I  think 
he  was  of  Irish  descent.  His  wife  was  proba- 
bly German.  They  lived  on  the  south  side 
of  the  Holston  River,  two  miles  above  Lenoir's 
Ferry,  now  Lenoir  City.  The  river  was 
called  Holston  then  as  far  down  as  the  mouth 
of  the  Little  Tennessee  River.  There  it 
took  the  name  of  Tennessee.  The  Little 
Tennessee  was  the  northern  boundary  of 
what  was  known  as  the  Cherokee  Hunting 
Ground.  When  father  married,  he  rented 
the  ferry  and  the  island  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Little  Tennessee,  built  a  cabin  close  by, 
and  brought  mother  there.  So  there  was  only 
the  small  river  between  them  and  the  Indians. 
Along  on  their  side  of  the  river  the  Indians 
had  many  little  towns — Coyalee,  Tomotlee, 
Choitee,  Tellico,  and  some  others — and  close 
by  was  the  ill-fated  Fort  Loudon,  of  sad 
history.  Here  in  father's  cabin  were  born 
seven  of  my  brothers  and  sisters;  there  were 
thirteen  of  us,  all  told — a  good,  honest 
family,  you  see. 

My  mother  was  the  youngest  of  a  large 
family  of  brothers  and  sisters.  My  father 
married  her  when  she  was  sixteen  years  old. 
He  was  not  religious  then,  but  mother  was. 

16 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


In  those  days  the  preachers  used  to  call  on  the 
women  sometimes  to  lead  in  prayer.  My 
mother  was  known  as  the  "praying  young 
woman  on  the  south  side  of  the  river/'  O, 
how  I  have  heard  her  pray  a  whole  camp 
meeting  onto  its  feet!  "And  there  was  the 
sound  of  going  in  the  mulberry  trees."  It 
was  said  at  her  funeral  that  "her  father,  four 
brothers,  two  sons,  and  eleven  nephews  were 
Methodist  preachers."  It  was  in  the  blood 
of  that  old  pioneer  local  preacher  and  his 
blessed  old  wife,  and  it  had  come  down  through 
their  children  and  children's  children  for  four 
generations;  and  if  there  has  ever  been  a  pauper 
or  a  "jail  bird"  among  them,  I  have  never 
heard  of  it.  This  is  our  family  testimony 
for  the  truth  of  God's  promise  of  "mercy 
unto  children  and  children's  children  to  such 
as  fear  him."  Who  hath  ears  to  hear,  let  him 
hear. 


l7 


II 

EARLY  HISTORY 

N  the  other  side  of  the  river 
from  Grandfather  Mitchell's, 
and  a  little  above,  lived  John 
Winton,  the  father  of  a  large 
and  influential  family  often  men- 
tioned in  the  journal  of  Bishop  Asbury.  Two 
of  his  sons,  William  and  James,  married  sisters 
of  my  mother,  and  John  McClure  married 
another.  Soon  after  this,  grandfather,  together 
with  most  of  his  family,  moved  to  Missouri  and 
located  near  Springfield.  Here  and  hereabouts 
the  Mitchells  and  Wintons  and  McClures 
gathered  somewhere  in  the  thirties.  Missouri 
was  called  the  "Far  West"  then.  I  recollect  that 
my  father  paid  fifty  cents  postage  on  letters 
sent  them,  and  this  recalls  a  remark  in  one  of 
grandfather's  letters  to  mother.  He  was  a 
very  fat  man — so  fat  that  he  could  not  tic 
his  own  shoes — and,  wanting  mother  to  know 
that  he  was  doing  well  in  the  Far  West, 
said:  "Rebecca,  I  am  as  fat  as  a  buck,  but 
cannot  jump  quite  so  high."     This  made  us 


18 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


children  laugh.  Missouri  Methodism  owes 
much  to  these  Mitchells  and  Wintons  and 
McClures.  Their  names  are  found  on  almost 
every  page  of  her  wonderful  history  from  that 
day  to  this,  on  districts  and  circuits  and  mis- 
sions, home  and  foreign,  and  in  schools  and 
colleges,  on  down  to  the  present  editor  of  the 
Christian  Advocate.  (Cousin  George,  I  did 
not  mean  anything  but  a  smile  by  tailing  out 
that  last  sentence  with  an  anticlimax.  But 
don't  let  your  wife  see  it.  She  and  I  are  good 
friends  now,  and  I  want  us  to  continue  so 
until  we  meet  over  the  river.) 

I  was  at  the  funeral  of  John  Winton.  His 
death  occurred  during  a  camp  meeting  at 
old  Muddy  Creek,  near  his  home.  My 
brother,  Timothy,  was  presiding  elder,  and 
had  charge  of  the  meeting.  Mr.  Winton's 
remains  were  brought  to  the  camp  ground, 
and  brother  conducted  the  services  in  the 
presence  of  a  very  large  assembly  of  his  devout 
neighbors.  He  was  the  father  of  the  two 
Wintons  who  married  my  aunts,  Mary  and 
Rhoda.  William  Winton,  who  married  my 
Aunt  Mary,  went  to  Missouri  about  1837. 
He  was  the  father  of  Rev.  George  Mitchell 
Winton,  who  for  more  than  forty  years  stood 


19 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

on  the  firing  line  of  our  Methodism  in  the 
Middle  West,  and  who  in  turn  was  the  father 
of  Rev.  George  B.  Winton,  D.  D.,  present 
editor  of  the  Nashville  Christian  Advocate. 
James  Winton,  who  married  my  Aunt  Rhoda, 
did  not  go  West  when  the  other  members  of 
his  family  did.  He  lived  at  Winton's  Island, 
twelve  miles  below  Kingston,  on  the  Tennessee 
River.  Here  he  brought  up  a  large  family 
of  sons  and  daughters.  The  oldest  son  was 
Rev.  Wiley  B.  Winton,  who  for  many  years 
was  a  member  of  the  Holston  Conference, 
and  one  of  the  very  best  preachers  ever  among 
us — a  gentle,  sweet-spirited,  and  lovable  man. 
His  eyes  failing,  he  took  the  superannuated 
relation,  and  went  with  his  family  to  Missouri, 
but  kept  his  membership  with  us  till  he  died. 
His  wife  was  an  honored  claimant  on  our 
Conference  fund  till  her  death,  a  few  years  ago. 
William  M.  Winton,  of  Missouri,  Wiley  B. 
Winton  and  Timothy  Sullins,  of  Holston,  were 
cousins.  The  first  two  were  double  cousins. 
And  no  general  ever  had  a  trio  of  marshals 
truer  or  braver  than  were  these  captains. 
"One  blast  of  their  bugle  horn  was  worth  a 
thousand  men."  There  were  giants  in  those 
days.     Preach  ?     Ah,    how    they   did    preach 


20 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


and  exhort  and  pray  and  sing!  Sons  of 
thunder  and  consolation,  they  were  all  good 
singers.  O,  to  hear  them  again!  And  I 
expect  to,  "some  sweet  day/'  in  the  swelling 
chorus  of  celestial  singers.     Amen. 

When  my  father  married,  he  rented  Lenoir's 
Ferry  and  the  big  island  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Little  Tennessee,  built  a  cabin,  and  brought 
mother  to  it.  Here  they  began  their  life  work. 
They  used  to  tell  us  what  they  had  to  begin 
with.  Father  had  a  cow  and  mother  a  set 
of  pewter  tableware,  a  wedding  portion  from 
her  father.  I  remember  that  some  of  the 
plates  were  in  the  family  when  I  was  "getting 
a  big  boy,"  and  particularly  a  basin  which 
was  used  in  the  yard  for  watering  the  chickens 
— a  good  thing.  It  did  not  rust,  and  was  so 
heavy  that  a  hen  could  not  turn  it  over  and 
'not  deep  enough  to  drown  the  little  ones. 
Here  they  lived  until  the  Hiwassee  land  sales, 
in  1819.  These  lands  included  the  Indian 
hunting  ground  between  the  Hiwassee  and  the 
Little  Tennessee.  Father  bought  of  the  State 
one  hundred  and  sixty  acres  two  miles  west  of 
Athens,  in  McMinn  County,  and  brought  his 
family  to  it. 

The  country  was  then  an  unbroken  wilder- 


21 


y 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

ness.  Father  said  there  was  "not  a  stick 
amiss"  where  Athens  now  is.  Here  another 
cabin  was  built  with  unhewn  logs,  clapboard 
roof,  puncheon  floor,  and  wooden  chimney. 
I  remember  this  cabin,  though  I  was  not  born 
in  it.  It  was  moved  to  another  part  of  the 
farm,  and  a  renter  lived  in  it  when  I  was  a 
child.  When  father  got  to  his  new  possessions 
with  his  stock,  it  was  all  woods.  So  they  cut 
some  saplings  and  made  a  sort  of  enclosure  for 
the  cattle  for  the  night,  and  then  in  the 
morning  salted  them  and  let  them  go  to  the 
"range."  After  a  few  years,  a  large  two- 
story  house  was  built  of  hewn  logs,  with  a 
brick  chimney.  On  the  back  of  the  chimney, 
some  ten  feet  up,  is  the  date  of  its  erection, 
1825.  This  house  still  stands.  Here  I  was 
born  and  brought  up.  There  were  but  few 
preaching  places  in  those  days,  so  father  left 
the  lower  room  of  his  house  without  a  parti- 
tion, which  made  a  good  place  for  the  neigh- 
bors to  meet  for  preaching  and  prayer  and 
class  meetings.  Father  kept  some  benches 
packed  away  for  use  on  such  occasions. 
I  helped  to  bring  them  in  and  arrange  them 
when  the  people  came  to  preaching. 

I  remember  to  have  heard  Bishop  Morris 


22 


Seventy  Years  in  T)ixie 


preach  at  our  house  once.  It  was  the  day 
after  the  Conference  closed  at  Madisonville, 
Tenn.,  1837.  He  came  in  the  evening  seven- 
teen miles,  and  preached  at  night.  He  was 
the  first  Bishop  I  ever  saw.  I  remember  well 
how  he  looked  as  he  stood  up  by  the  old  family 
clock,  which  was  "taller  by  half"  than  the 
Bishop  himself.  Here  in  this  house  I  was 
born,  and  here  cluster  all  the  sweet  associations 
of  childhood  and  youth — father  and  mother, 
brothers  and  sisters,  the  fields  and  the  orchard, 
the  big  forest  oaks  in  the  yard,  the  well  with 
its  wooden  pump,  and  the  spring  house  by  it, 
the  horses  and  my  own  pretty  colt  which 
father  gave  me  for  my  own — aye,  and  my  pack 
of  dogs,  whose  leader  and  chief  was  True 
Boy.  He  was  a  wise  old  dog,  and  merited  his 
name.  I  learned  many  things  from  him,  of 
which  I  may  tell  you  later,  maybe. 

But  of  all  the  recollections  of  my  childhood, 
the  dearest  and  most  sacred  was  the  gathering 
of  the  large  family  for  the  morning  and 
evening  prayers.  I  can  see  them  now,  all 
quietly  seated  while  the  lesson  was  being  read, 
and  then  all  stood  up  to  sing.  This  was 
father's  rule.  And  oftener,  perhaps,  than 
anything  else  we  sang  "Father,  I  Stretch  My 


23 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

Hands  to  Thee,"  to  the  tune  of  "Mean"  But 
I  told  you  above  that  father  was  not  religious 
when  he  married  mother.  That  was  true. 
And  indeed  I  think  that  what  religious  bent 
there  was  in  our  family  was  largely  due  to 
the  Mitchell  blood  and  training  in  mother. 
The  Sullins  stock  in  my  father  was  strongly 
marked  by  the  blood  of  his  Virginia  mother, 
Mary  Mays.  The  Mayses  were  more  noted 
for  their  love  of  fine  horses,  fox  dogs,  and 
handsome  women,  than  for  their  piety.  Yes, 
and  I  know  one  living  grandson  of  Mary  Mays 
in  whom  have  always  been  some  troublesome 
streaks  of  fondness  for  these  things.  Then 
how  did  my  unconverted  father  come  to  be 
holding  family  prayers?  Well,  mother  told 
me,  in  substance,  this: 


24 


Ill 


OUR  FAMILY  ALTAR 


W0i 

WWS^ 

I 

p3j 

H  ftl.A 

T  was  not  long  after  marriage 
till  father,  through  the  exhorta- 
tions of  grandfather  and  the 
prayers  of  mother,  was  deeply 
convicted  and  was  induced  to 
join  the  Church  as  a  "seeker  on  probation." 
Matters  stood  thus  for  some  time.  But 
the  children  were  growing  up,  and  mother 
was  much  concerned  about  them.  So  in  the 
middle  of  a  sleepless  night  of  prayer  she  said 
to  father:  "Nathan,  we  can  never  bring 
up  the  children  right  without  family  prayers." 
"Well,"  said  father,  "what  are  we  to  do, 
Becky  ?  I  can't  pray."  But  mother  insisted 
that  he  could  and  ought  to,  and  then  added: 
"If  you  will  try,  I  will  take  it  time  about  with 
you  holding  prayers."  That  brought  the 
question  to  an  issue,  and  so  finally  father, 
almost  with  a  groan,  said:  "Fll  try."  The 
die  was  cast.  So  next  morning  mother  held 
prayers.  Father  went  to  his  work.  He  plowed 
and    prayed    all    that  day,    he    said.     After 


25 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

supper  mother  got  the  children  all  quiet,  and 
said:  "Nathan,  we  are  ready  for  prayers/' 
Father  dropped  on  his  knees  and,  stammering 
and  choking,  began.  Soon,  under  a  crushing 
sense  of  sin  and  helplessness,  he  began  to 
confess  and  cry  for  pardoning  mercy.  Mother 
prayed  and  cried,  and  the  Comforter  came 
and  light  broke  in  and  father  was  converted  at 
family  prayers.  Amen  and  amen!  And  that 
forever  settled  the  question  of  family  prayers 
at  our  house.  No  wonder!  It  settled  many 
other  things  in  the  family,  too,  as  it  always  will 
in  any  family.  Of  the  thirteen  children  born 
in  the  home,  eleven  have  already  "fought  the 
good  fight"  and  gone  to  join  father  and  mother 
in  glory.  Today  there  is  a  family  altar  in  the 
home  of  every  living  child  and  every  grand- 
child, and  every  great-grandchild  old  enough 
to  know  and  love  Jesus  is  a  Christian  and  in 
the  Church,  as  far  as  I  know.  Here  I  want  to 
bear  testimony  to  the  honor  of  my  brothers — 
they  are  all  dead  now.  I  never  heard  a  pro- 
fane oath  from  the  lips  of  one  of  them.  So 
much  for  a  faithful  family  altar.  And  still 
more.  There  are  but  two  of  us  living.  One 
is  my  youngest  sister,  Mrs.  Rebecca  Dodson, 
of  Knoxville,  Tenn.,  the  mother  of  a  religious 

26 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


family.  We  are  old,  but  we  are  still  singing: 
"Father,  I  Stretch  My  Hands  to  Thee."  The 
day  is  far  spent ;  but  our  faces  are  turned  toward 
home,  and  we  expect  to  get  there  by  sundown. 
If  these  reminiscences  are  to  be  continued, 
I  must  leave  the  field  of  tradition  and  write 
from  memory.  And  here  let  me  beg  the 
reader  of  these  crude  sentences  to  bear  in 
mind  that  I  am  not  writing  history  or  tabulated 
statistics  for  books;  but  am  writing  of  men  and 
things  carried  in  memory  through  this  turbu- 
lent world,  many  of  them  for  seventy  years  and 
more.  My  very  earliest  recollections  of  per- 
sons and  things,  outside  of  the  family,  are  of 
the  preachers  who  came  to  our  house  and  of 
the  meetings  they  held — "circuit  preaching/' 
quarterly  meetings,  and  especially  camp  meet- 
ings. We  lived  in  the  Athens  Circuit,  which 
had  some  twenty  preaching  places.  Athens 
was  in  the  circuit  then.  Indeed,  there  were 
perhaps  not  a  half  dozen  stations  in  the  bounds 
of  the  Conference,  including  the  two  districts 
in  North  Carolina.  We  generally  had  two 
preachers,  a  senior  and  a  junior.  I  recall 
very  vividly  the  first  preachers  I  ever  saw  at 
our  house.  It  was  just  after  an  Annual  Con- 
ference.  The  coming  of  an  Annual  Conference 


27 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

in  those  days  was  a  memorable  event;  for, 
as  a  rule,  the  preachers  were  changed  every 
year,  and  we  looked  for  a  new  man,  except  the 
presiding  elders.  The  Conference  had  been 
in  session  several  days,  somewhere  up  the 
country,  and  it  was  time  the  new  preachers 
were  putting  in  their  appearance.  Father  had 
taken  me,  a  boy  eight  or  ten  years  old,  out  on 
the  farm  to  help  him  lay  a  fence  worm.  I 
could  put  a  rock  or  a  chunk  under  the  end  of 
the  rail  to  level  it  where  the  ground  was  uneven. 
The  house  was  in  full  view  on  the  hill,  among 
the  big  oaks  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away.  It 
was  nearly  dinner  time  when  we  saw  two  men 
ride  up  to  the  house,  hitch,  and  go  in.  This 
was  not  strange;  for  we  lived  on  the  main  road 
leading  to  the  Indian  Territory,  just  across  the 
Hiwassee  River,  twelve  miles  away,  and 
travelers  often  stopped  with  us.  But  the  fact 
that  mother  did  not  blow  the  horn  for  some  one 
to  take  care  of  the  horses  was  significant. 
Very  soon  the  men  came  out  and  started 
toward  the  barn  with  their  horses.  Father 
said :  "I  expect  they  are  preachers  going  from 
the  Conference."  The  preachers  put  up  their 
own  horses  in  those  days  when  the  hands  were 
in  the  fields. 


28 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


Not  long  after  we  saw  them  coming  out  to  us. 
I  was  curious  to  see  them.  One  of  them  was 
a  long,  loose-jointed,  careless-looking  man 
with  a  very  sallow,  sole-leather  colored  face, 
and  no  beard,  and  was  evidently  the  older 
man.  The  other  was  a  smaller  man,  closely 
built,  had  a  vigorous,  nervous  step,  and  was 
looking  everywhere;  and  as  he  came  down  the 
hill  he  picked  up  a  rock  and  threw  at  a  bird, 
like  a  boy.  As  they  came  up  to  us,  the  older 
man  held  out  a  long,  bony  hand  that  looked 
like  it, might  have  been  disjointed  at  the  wrist 
and  bunglingly  reset,  and  in  a  kind,  frank  tone 
of  voice  said:  "And  this  is  Brother  Sullins  ? 
Glad  to  see  you.  My  name  is  Haskew.  Let 
me  introduce  Brother  Brownlow."  And 
Brownlow  shook  hands  with  father  and  turned 
and  pinched  my  ear. 

Of  course,  the  transaction  made  a  lasting 
impression  on  me,  and  I  recollect  Joseph 
Haskew  and  William  G.  Brownlow  as  the 
first  preachers  seen  at  our  house.  They  were 
our  circuit  riders  for  that  year,  and  for  the  next 
fifty  years  I  knew  them  well.  Joseph  Haskew 
was  for  many  years  one  of  the  most  popular 
and  efficient  preachers  in  the  Holston  Con- 
ference.    A  good  man,  full  of  faith  and  the 


29 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

Holy  Ghost,  he  was  a  good  preacher,  but  a 
better  exhorter.  He  was  by  nature  both  a 
wag  and  a  wit.  I  always  loved  him;  for  he 
waited  on  himself,  put  up  and  caught  his  own 
horse;  and  if  he  wanted  a  fire,  he  got  the  wood 
and  made  it.  I  liked  that.  Many  pleasing 
stories  are  told  of  his  kind  ways  and  witty 
words.  You  can  find  them  in  the  "History  of 
Holston  Methodism/'  by  Dr.  R.  N.  Price. 
(Smith  &  Lamar,  #1.25.)  Rev.  W.  G.  Brown- 
low  was  altogether  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
men  our  Holston  country  ever  produced.  But 
for  me  to  write  of  him  is  to  unkindly  assume 
that  the  reader  is  ignorant  of  the  common 
history  of  the  country.  He  was  a  mighty  man 
with  both  tongue  and  pen,  as  many  had 
occasion  to  know.  He  was  not  so  lovable  a 
man  as  Haskew.  I  loved  Haskew  all  the 
time,  but  Brownlow  part  of  the  time  only. 
I  shall  try  to  tell  you  of  their  camp  meetings 
next. 


30 


IV 

CAMP  MEETINGS 

EVENTY  years  ago  camp  meet- 
ings were  very  common  here 
in  these  Holston  hills  between 
the  Great  Smokies  on  the  east 
and  the  Cumberland  Moun- 
tains on  the  west.  The  Methodists  took  the 
lead,  but  were  closely  followed  by  the  Presby- 
terians and  Baptists.  Taking  our  circuit 
for  example,  there  were  three  Methodist  camp 
grounds,  two  Presbyterian,  and  one  Baptist. 
And  it  was  about  the  same  on  other  charges 
in  the  district.  So  it  was  not  uncommon  to 
find  twelve  or  fifteen  in  one  presiding  elder's 
district,  to  be  held  along  from  the  middle  of 
August  to  the  last  of  September.  These 
meetings  have  almost  disappeared  in  the  last 
few  years.  A  brief  account  of  them  may  not 
be  uninteresting.  Our  old  people  who  know  all 
about  them,  why  theyjwere  established  and  how 
conducted,  need  not  take  time  to  read  this 
chapter  of  recollections.  It  is  written  more  for 
the  young  people,  who  know  little  or  nothing 


3i 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

about  their  origin,  the  why  and  the  what  and 
the  how  of  those  great  religious  gatherings. 

Let  us  make  it  very  clear  in  the  outset  to 
our  young  friends  that  they  were  not  great 
annual  assemblies  for  social  enjoyment  and 
pleasure.  True,  there  was  a  measure  of  social 
pleasure  when  old  friends  and  neighbors  who 
rarely  met  elsewhere  came  with  their  families 
and  tented  side  by  side  for  days  together.  But 
these  meetings  had  their  origin  in  a  profound 
concern  for  the  souls  of  men,  to  build  up  the 
faith  of  believers  and  call  sinners  to  repentance. 
The  particular  form  of  service  as  seen  in  the 
camp  meetings  was  not  an  accident,  but  the 
deliberate  adoption  of  the  best  methods  under 
existing  conditions  to  compass  the  end  in 
view — the  salvation  of  men.  And  they  did  it 
gloriously.  Some  argue  that  their  discontin- 
uance is  an  evidence  that  the  Church  is  less 
concerned  now  than  then,  but  this  is  perhaps 
not  true.  Conditions  have  changed.  Then 
churches  were  few  and  small;  pastors  were 
overworked  on  large  circuits  sparsely  settled; 
religious  workers  in  any  given  neighborhood, 
were  few  and  timid.  Camp  meetings  met 
these  conditions.  First,  by  providing  com- 
fortable places  large  enough  for  whole  com- 


32 


Seventy  Years  in  *Dixie 


munities  to  worship  together,  and  thus  giving 
the  pastors  an  opportunity  to  see  and  serve 
their  people,  gathered  from  far  and  near. 
Then  they  called  Christian  workers  from 
different  neighborhoods  to  sustain  the  song  and 
prayer  services  and  instruct  penitents.  They 
created  interest  enough  to  bring  the  scattered 
people  from  the  fields  and  flocks  to  the  place  of 
worship.  In  a  word,  they  were  great  religious 
rallies.  |H 

The  recollections  of  my  boyhood  are  full  of 
these  camp  meeting  occasions.  Our  camp 
ground  was  at  Cedar  Springs.  There  was  a 
small  log  church  here,  and  here  my  father  and 
Jacob  Hoss,  a  kinsman  of  the  Bishop,  built 
a  shed  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  feet  long  and 
seventy-five  feet  wide,  with  wings  on  hinges. 
When  these  wings  were  down,  it  was  a  great 
house;  and  when  up,  would  seat  two  thousand. 
The  tents  were  rude  shacks  made  of  logs, 
many  of  them  with  bark  on.  There  were  no 
fireplaces.  Beds  were  scaffolds  along  the 
sides  of  the  tents.  All  floors  were  dirt,  covered 
with  straw.  Some  used  sawdust,  but  I  liked 
the  straw  better.  It  had  associated  with  it 
the  smell  of  the  fields  and  the  bantering  ring 
of  the  reapers'  blades  and  the  metheglin  that 


33 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

mother  made  for  the  three-o'clock  lunch  for 
the  harvesters  and  the  cheery  whistle  of  Bob 
White  from  his  rail  perch,  piping  to  his  old 
mate  on  the  nest  hard  by.  So  I  liked  the  straw 
better.  We  and  our  neighbors  usually  moved 
to  the  camp  ground  on  Friday,  which  was  fast 
day.  At  night,  after  things  were  arranged  in 
the  tents,  we  had  short  introductory  services 
under  the  shed.  Shed;  pavilion,  and  auditor- 
ium belonged  to  a  later  period.  At  this 
service  the  leader,  who  was  usually  the  pre- 
siding elder,  announced  the  regulations  for  the 
government  of  the  meeting.  "The  ground  and 
groves  on  the  south  are  reserved  for  the 
women,  and  those  on  the  north  for  the  men," 
was  generally  the  first  rule.  The  second  rule 
was:  "The  women  will  occupy  the  seats  on 
the  right  of  the  center  aisle  in  the  congrega- 
tion; the  men,  those  on  the  left."  And  this 
rule  was  strictly  observed.  If  a  man  should 
take  a  seat  on  the  side  assigned  to  the  women, 
some  officer  would  quietly  call  his  attention 
to  the  rule  in  a  general  way.  If  this  modest 
hint  did  not  move  him,  he  was  waited  on  and 
told  plainly  that  he  must  take  his  seat  on  the 
other  side  of  the  aisle.  I  saw  this  done  again 
and  again.     These  were  queer  old  ways  our 


34 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


fathers  had.  But  they  were  wise,  and  broke 
up  much  of  the  whispering  and  giggling  which 
disturb  public  worship  often  in  promiscuous 
assemblies. 

We  were  next  told  that  at  the  first  sound  of 
the  horn  all  must  get  up  and  prepare  for  the 
day.  (Mother  took  her  dinner  horn  and  hung 
it  in  the  preacher's  tent.)  This  first  horn  was 
blown  about  sunup  if  one  of  the  young 
preachers  had  to  blow  it;  but  if  Uncle  Haskew 
had  it  in  charge,  it  sounded  out  about  the  peep 
of  day.  All  subsequent  soundings  of  the  horn 
were  to  call  the  people  to  worship.  At  this 
time  all  persons  must  leave  the  tent,  save  one, 
and  the  tent  be  closed.  The  hours  for  service 
were  9:30,  n,  3,  and  "candle-lighting."  At 
night  the  whole  encampment  was  lighted  up 
with  candles  under  the  shed,  and  around  it 
with  blazing  pine  knots.  These  candles  were 
fastened  to  the  posts  and  set  on  the  pulpit 
board.  It  was  the  special  duty  of  some  one  to 
keep  the  pine  knots  going.  At  the  close  of  the 
three-o'clock  service  the  people  were  exhorted 
and  urged  to  go  to  the  grove  and  form  praying- 
circles,  women  and  men  to  their  separate 
groves.  And  here  was  done  much  hand-to- 
hand  and  heart-to-heart  work.     Neighbor  with 


35 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

neighbor  and  neighbor's  children,  with  songs 
and  prayers  and  exhortations  and  personal 
pleadings,  out  in  the  woods  with  God  at  the 
holy,  quiet  hour  of  sunset.  O,  what  scenes  I 
have  witnessed  and  what  thrills  of  pious  joy 
have  I  felt  on  these  occasions,  boy  as  I  was! 
And  now,  old  man  as  I  am,  as  I  walk  back 
in  memory  over  those  holy  hours,  my  soul 
"doth  magnify  the  Lord." 

Often  when  there  was  a  little  lull  in  our 
grove  we  would  hear  the  women  over  in  theirs, 
led  on  by  some  modern  Miriam,  singing  and 
shouting.  And  we  knew  and  felt  that  God 
was  among  them  and  that  his  hosts  were  press- 
ing the  enemy  and  the  cry  of  victory  was  in  the 
air.  Listen!  I  can  hear  them  now  over  the 
seventy  intervening  years,  singing: 

"Our  bondage  here  will  end  by  and  by, 

by  and  by  ; 
From  Egypt's  yoke  set  free, 

hail  the  glorious  jubilee, 
And  to  Canaan  we'll  return  by  and  by, 

by  and  by." 

These  praying  groups  would  sometimes 
return  to  the  encampment  about  dusk  singing, 
bringing  a  half  dozen  penitents,  and  when  they 

36 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


met  at  the  altar,  there  was  the  shout  of  a  king 
in  the  camp.  Usually  under  these  conditions 
we  had  no  preaching  that  night.  The  leader 
would  throw  his  voice  over  the  great,  surging 
mass  of  people  and  invite  sinners  to  come  to 
Jesus.  No  preaching  and  no  supper  that 
night.  The  tenters  would  keep  a  pot  of  coffee 
hot  out  at  the  back  of  their  tents  for  the  work- 
ers. The  altar  service  would  last  all  night. 
I  have  seen  more  than  one  man  converted  at 
daybreak,  as  Jacob  was  at  the  Jabbok,  after 
an  all-night's  wrestle  with  the  angel. 

Here  is  a  custom  which  was  wise  but  queer, 
the  benediction  was  never  pronounced  until 
the  close  of  the  last  service  of  the  meeting. 
Why?  Well,  this  was  then  a  new  country. 
There  were  many  rude,  bad  men  in  it,  and 
whisky  made  them  worse.  We  needed  the 
protection  of  the  State  as  a  worshipping 
assembly.  So  we  never  closed  the  services, 
but  were  a  worshipping  people  all  the  while 
we  were  there. 

There  are  very  many  other  interesting 
features  left  out  of  this  report  of  camp  meetings 
of  seventy  years  ago.  It  is  long  enough.  Let 
us  have  the  benediction  and  close  and  go  home 
to  do  better  and  be  better,  having  been  to 


37 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

another  camp  meeting.  One  smile  before  we 
go.  As  I  run  back  in  thought  to  those  days 
there  is  one  incident  recalled  which  still  pro- 
vokes a  smile.  The  old  church  was  used  for 
the  preacher's  tent.  Mother  was  a  sort  of 
self-appointed  superintendent  there  to  see  that 
these  men  of  God  had  at  least  moderate  com- 
forts: straw  for  their  beds;  a  bucket  and  a 
dipper;  a  good  big  lump  of  home-made  soap, 
which  was  hardened  by  putting  salt  in  it  as  we 
stirred  it  off;  some  home-made  flax  towels, 
which  sometimes  scratched  a  little  if  you 
rubbed  hard;  and  a  wash  pan  for  those  who 
did  not  want  to  walk  down  to  the  spring  with 
Uncle  Haskew  to  wash.  As  the  clans  gathered 
on  Saturday,  mother  slipped  off  to  reconnoiter, 
to  count  noses  and  beds.  When  she  came 
back,  she  said  to  father:  "Nathan,  we  must 
take  another  bed  up  to  the  preacher's  tent." 
"Well,"  said  father,  "we'll  attend  to  it  after 
supper."  Now  Mr.  Workman,  clerk  of  the 
court  in  town,  two  miles  away,  was  in  the 
habit  of  riding  out  to  attend  night  services. 
He  was  a  very  fleshy  man — full,  very  full  in  the 
chest  and  body,  too — and  being  very  fat,  he  en- 
joyed a  white  vest,  which  he  wore  cut  long  and 
pulled  well  down  in  the  front,  with  his  coat 

38 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


thrown  back.  He  had  just  arrived  and  hitch- 
ed his  horse  at  the  rear  of  our  tent  and  was  walk- 
ing up  slowly  toward  the  preacher's  tent, 
when  father  came  to  the  door  and,  peering  into 
the  twilight,  stood  a  moment,  and  then,  turn- 
ing to  mother,  said:  "Becky,  we  need  not  take 
another  bed  to  the  preacher's.  I  see  some 
one  going  up  with  one  now."  This  brought 
mother  to  the  door  to  see  who  might  be  med- 
dling with  her  business.  In  a  moment  she  began 
to  laugh,  and  father  said:  "What  are  you 
laughing  at  ?"  "Why,"  she  said,  "that  is  not 
a  man  carrying  a  bed ;  it  is  Mr.  Sam.  Workman 
and  his  long  white  vest."  Father  could  not 
see  well  in  the  twilight.  But  we  children 
laughed  with  mother. 


39 


V 


CAMP  MEETINGS—CONTINUED 

IND  reader  of  these  recollec- 
tions, I  thought  that  when  we 
parted  at  the  close  of  the  camp 
meeting  which  we  attended  in 
the  last  chapter  that  I  had  said 
what  I  had  to  say  on  the  subject;  but  camp 
meetings  were  a  great  thing  with  me  when  I 
was  a  boy,  and  very  many  scenes  and  occur- 
rences come  up  for  notice.  So  if  I  tell  the  whole 
truth  they  must  come  in.  Among  the  well- 
remembered  things  that  interested  me  was 
the  gathering  of  people  from  far  and  near, 
and  then  the  taking  care  of  them  when  they 
came.  Besides  the  tenters,  many  came  in 
covered  wagons,  bringing  their  provisions  and 
a  few  cooking  vessels  with  them.  These  did 
their  own  cooking  by  a  fire  built  by  a  stump  or 
log,  slept  in  their  wagons,  and  so  took  care  of 
themselves.  I  have  seen  as  many  as  twenty 
or  thirty  of  such  groups  scattered  around  in  the 
groves  at  the  same  time.  Many  others  came 
on  horseback,  the  women  with  big  satchels 


40 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


hanging  on  the  horns  of  their  saddles.  These 
were  received  as  visitors  and  taken  care  of  by 
the  tent  holders.  I  have  known  my  father  to 
set  apart  a  good  piece  of  pasture  where  there 
were  water  and  a  strong  fence,  where  we  turned 
the  horses,  fifteen  or  twenty  sometimes.  It 
will  appear  to  the  thoughtful  that  these  meet- 
ings made  large  demands  on  the  liberality  and 
generosity  of  the  tent  holders  and  the  neighbors 
near  by.  It  was  no  child's  play  to  take  care 
of  the  hundreds  of  men  and  women  and  horses 
who  gathered  on  these  occasions  for  days 
together — ten  to  fifteen  days  sometimes.  They 
generally  began  on  Friday,  and  closed  Tuesday 
or  Wednesday  following.  But  when  the  Lord 
was  graciously  present,  killing  and  making 
alive,  they  were  carried  over  two  Sundays. 
In  such  cases  the  preachers  and  tenters  were 
called  together  to  consult  as  to  what  should  be 
done. 

I  recall  several  such  instances.  But  one 
especially  impressed  itself  upon  me.  It  was 
at  Cane  Creek,  in  my  own  county,  about  1842 
or  1843.  The  meeting  had  been  one  of  great 
power.  One  Monday  night  the  atmosphere 
seemed  charged,  as  it  were,  with  the  awful 
presence  and  power  of  God.     Sinners  walked 


4i 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

about  softly  and  with  solemn  faces,  and  the 
service  lasted  nearly  all  night.  Tuesday 
morning  the  preachers  and  the  tent  holders 
came  together  for  consultation,  and  after 
serious  counsel  agreed  to  go  on  through  the 
week.  This  necessitated  additional  prepara- 
tions to  care  for  the  many  then  present  and 
others  likely  to  come.  And  so  the  tenters  got 
together  just  inside  the  inclosure  by  the  shed 
for  a  conference.  They  formed  a  ring  facing 
to  the  center,  twenty  or  twenty-five  of  them — 
all  serious,  thoughtful  men.  A  large  crowd 
gathered  around  them,  I,  with  others,  but  no 
one  joined  them.  After  the  situation  had  been 
talked  over,  it  was  agreed  that  certain  of  them 
should  go  home,  some  to  kill  a  beef,  others  a 
hog  or  two,  others  to  go  to  the  mill  for  meal  and 
flour,  etc. — all  to  be  brought  and  divided 
among  them  as  each  might  need.  This 
settled,  there  was  a  minute  or  two  of  solemn 
silence.  Then  some  one  suggested  a  "word 
of  prayer/'  Uriah  Payne,  a  local  preacher, 
led  the  prayer,  as  I  recollect,  and  we  all  felt 
that  the  Lord  heard  those  men  talking  to  him. 
The  prayer  ended,  they  all  stood  for  a  moment, 
still  facing  each  other  in  the  ring;  and  then  one 
of  them  began  to  laugh,  and  in  a  moment  the 


42 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


laugh  flew  around  that  ring  as  quick  as  a  flash 
of  light,  peal  after  peal.  This  lasted  a  minute 
or  two,  and  then  all  was  as  solemn  and  silent  as 
death.  Then  one  began  a  half-smothered 
laugh,  like  he  was  trying  to  keep  it  down,  and 
with  that  away  went  the  laugh  around  the 
group  in  absolute  convulsions.  They  would 
lean  forward  until  their  heads  almost  touched 
each  other,  and  then  backward,  while  peals 
of  laughter  burst  in  concert  from  each  until 
they  almost  lost  their  breath.  This  strange 
proceeding  lasted  ten  or  fifteen  minutes. 
Now  what  was  most  strange  was  that  this 
laughter  did  not  produce  levity  in  any  beholder. 
It  was  a  very  solemn  scene.  Somehow  it  was 
pleasant  to  be  there,  but  no  one  saw  anything 
ludicrous.  I  had  seen  what  they  called  the 
"trance"  several  times  when  the  person  lay  as 
dead  for  hours  and  then  sprang  up  shouting  the 
praise  of  God.  But  this  was  a  purely  laugh- 
ing exercise.  I  had  never  seen  it  before. 
But  I  have  seen  modifications  of  it  a  time  or 
two  since.  This  was  twenty  or  thirty  years 
after  the  days  of  the  "jerks"  or  "falling 
exercise." 

What  was  this  ?     Well,  I  know;  for  once  in  a 
while  on  my  way  I  have  been  enabled  by  grace 


43 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

to  so  far  forget  time  and  self  as  to  just  lay  all — 
verily,  all — on  the  altar  of  service  for  God  and 
humanity,  and  then  I  felt  the  laugh  start  in  my 
heart.  And  I  can  see  away  ahead  of  me  where 
the  laugh  struck  those  good  men.  What  was 
it  ?  Why,  this:  Those  good  men  had  left  their 
farms  and  shops,  canceled  all  business  arrange- 
ments, shut  up  their  homes,  and  taken  their 
families,  with  their  substance,  bread  and  meat, 
and  for  ten  days  had  given  their  entire  time 
and  labor  to  the  cause  of  Christ.  And  all  this 
with  no  desire  or  expectation  of  ever  receiving 
one  dollar  in  return — all  purely  for  God  and 
their  fellow-men.  Our  God  never  was,  and 
never  will  be,  behindhand  with  such  men  for 
such  unselfish  devotion.  And  so  "he  filled 
their  mouth  with  laughter,  and  their  lips  with 
rejoicing."  Sometimes,  but  not  always,  the 
Lord  rewards  his  servants  "in  kind"  for  their 
unselfish  devotion  to  his  cause.  When  Jesse 
Cunnyngham,  father  of  the  late  Dr.  W.  G.  E. 
Cunnyngham,  fed  a  hundred  men  and  horses 
at  a  great  meeting,  some  of  his  neighbors  said : 
"The  Methodists  will  eat  Cunnyngham  out 
of  house  and  home  yet."  But  they  did  not 
consider  that  they  would  have  to  bankrupt 
Cunnyngham's  God  before  they  could  do  that. 


44 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


I  knew  that  good  man.  He  was  our  neighbor. 
I  heard  him  preach  seventy  years  ago.  He 
died  at  a  good  old  age,  "full-handed. "  And 
the  influence  of  his  unselfish  light  shed  a  sweet 
light  on  all  around,  like  the  lingering  rays  of  a 
setting  sun  that  makes  a  half  hemisphere 
luminous  after  its  ball  is  far  behind  the  hills. 

Among  the  wonderful  manifestations  of  the 
power  and  work  of  the  Spirit  in  saving 
sinners,  I  recall  a  scene  which  I  witnessed  at 
a  camp  meeting  at  Cedar  Springs,  where 
father  camped.  There  was  great  solemnity 
felt  everywhere,  a  conscious  presence  that 
awed  the  vast  assembly.  (A  no  uncommon 
thing,  be  it  remembered,  when  God's  people 
are  waiting  for  him.)  Sinners  were  subdued. 
There  was  in  the  audience  a  large  man — 
thirty  years  old,  perhaps — a  strong,  resolute 
man  with  a  set,  determined  look,  yet  much 
agitated.  I  saw  him  get  up  suddenly  and 
start  out  of  the  congregation.  He  walked 
eight  or  ten  steps,  and  then  broke  into  a  run, 
but  stopped  abruptly,  as  if  seized  by  a  giant, 
and  fell  to  the  ground,  crying  out  at  the  top  of 
his  voice  as  one  stricken  with  terror.  He  had 
not  gotten  outside  of  the  inclosure.  Some  of 
the  brethren  went  to  him  at  once,  and  got  down 


45 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

on  their  knees  by  him.  Those  old  soldiers 
did  not  seem  much  troubled,  but  looked  rather 
like  they  were  glad  of  it.  And  I  believe  they 
were.  They  knew  he  was  wounded,  and 
where,  and  they  knew  the  tree  that  bleeds  the 
balm  he  needed.  So  they  told  him  of  the  cross 
and  the  Jesus  who  died  on  it  for  sinners.  And 
Uncle  Joe  Gaston,  the  old  class  leader,  began 
to  sing,  "Show  Pity,  Lord;  O  Lord,  Forgive," 
and  to  clap  his  hands,  as  he  was  wont  to  do 
when  things  went  his  way.  And  we  knew 
the  case  was  hopeful.  This  was  Alexander 
Robeson.  He  became  a  local  preacher  and  was 
the  father  of  the  late  Rev.  William  Robeson, 
who  for  fifty  years  was  a  member  of  the 
Holston  Conference. 

Thank  God  for  camp  meetings  in  their 
season!  More  than  half  of  the  preachers  in 
the  Holston  Conference  fifty  years  ago  had 
been  converted  at  camp  meetings.  And  in 
most  instances  they  were  the  sons  of  the 
fathers  and  mothers  who  had  tented  at  these 
meetings.  Somehow  the  head  of  the  Church 
seems  to  have  found  the  men  he  wanted  for 
pioneer  and  field  work  among  the  sons  of 
these  old  tent  holders. 


46 


VI 
THE  SIMPLE  LIFE 

HESE  recollections  will  be  very 
incomplete  if,  having  spent  the 
ever-to-be-remembered  days  of 
my  childhood  and  youth  on  the 
farm,  I  do  not  give  a  chapter 
to  that  period  and  tell  how  a  farmer  and 
his  family  lived  in  those  days  in  this  East 
Tennessee  country.  I  was  born  in  the 
"Cherokee  Hunting  Grounds/'  seven  years 
after  the  Indians  gave  it  up,  with  all  its  bears 
and  wolves  and  deer  and  turkeys  still  roaming 
over  the  mountains  and  valleys.  During 
those  seven  years  the  country  had  been  settled 
up  by  young  families,  most  of  whom  had 
been  renters,  as  father  had  been.  These  had, 
by  industry  and  economy,  made  and  saved 
enough  money  to  buy  a  few  acres  of  govern- 
ment land  in  the  woods.  Here  they  built  a 
cabin  and  began  their  life  work.  When  I  was 
a  boy,  they  had  cleared  a  few  acres  around  the 
cabin  and  about  the  pens  where  they  stacked 
the  fodder  and  kept  the  horses.     It  will  occur 


47 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

to  the  reader  that  such  a  citizenship  was 
very  homogeneous,  and  likely  to  be  harmon- 
ious. They  all  worked,  knew  how  to  work 
and  how  to  take  care  of  what  they  made. 
They  were  a  sort  of  brotherhood,  and  under- 
stood and  sympathized  with  each  other. 
If  I  tell  you  how  we  lived,  you  will  know  how 
our  neighbors  lived.  Every  man  had  to  get 
his  victuals  and  clothes  off  the  farm,  for 
there  was  no  other  way  to  get  them.  We  had 
no  market  and  little  use  for  any,  for  we  con- 
sumed what  we  made.  We  had  almost  no 
money,  and  but  little  use  for  any,  as  there 
was  nothing  to  sell  or  buy.  If  one  had  a  little 
more  meat  or  corn  or  fodder  than  he  needed, 
and  his  neighbor  was  needing  it,  they  barter- 
ed some  way — gave  a  colt  or  a  calf  for  what 
was  necessary  to  tide  them  over.  I  saw  much 
of  this  done  after  I  was  ten  years  old. 

Our  home  life  was  the  "simple  life"  long 
before  Mr.  Wagner  ever  wrote  it  up.  The 
farm,  under  the  management  of  father,  pro- 
duced what  was  needed  for  comfort.  He 
added  to  his  original  one  hundred  and  sixty 
acres  till  he  had  a  thousand,  and  almost  all 
of  it  still  in  the  woods  when  I  was  a  boy. 
Father  had  his  own  notions  about  slavery.    He 

48 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


never  would  own  a  negro.  But  whether  these 
notions  grew  out  of  any  convictions  that 
slavery  as  it  existed  among  us  was  in  itself 
wrong,  or  out  of  other  and  very  different 
considerations,  is  not  quite  clear.  I  think  the 
latter  is  true.  Somehow  he  never  seemed 
to  think  that  negroes  in  the  family  were  to  be 
desired.  They  had  to  be  Hectored  to  make 
them  worth  their  keep,  and  he  did  not  like 
to  boss.  I  have  heard  him  and  mother  laugh 
and  tell  that  Grandfather  Mitchell  (mother's 
father)  had  a  negro  boy  he  sometimes  took  to 
church  with  him;  but  instead  of  the  boy 
hitching  grandfather's  horse,  it  worked  the 
other  way,  for  grandfather  would  hunt  up  a 
swinging  limb  and  hitch  the  boy's  horse  to  it. 
They  said  that  grandfather  had  two  or  three 
negroes  to  wait  on,  and  father  could  never  see 
much  in  that  to  be  desired.  Then  father  con- 
sidered another  important  fact:  he  had  four 
boys,  ranging  in  age  from  sixteen  down  to  ten 
years,  and  he  had  the  now  almost  obsolete 
idea  that  it  was  well  for  a  boy  to  have  some- 
thing  to  do  and  be  required  to  do  it.  So  we 
boys  did  the  work;  and  if  we  failed,  then  he 
generally  did  something  memorable,  but  not 
put  in  this  chapter. 


49 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

There  was  plenty  for  us  all  to  do  on  that 
thousand  acres  of  forest — grubbing  and  brush 
burning  and  rail-splitting  and  fence-making. 
Yes,  and  then  came  the  plowing.  My,  my! 
Were  not  those  young  hickory  roots  tough  ? 
And  did  not  that  old  plow  punch  my  ribs 
black  and  blue  ?  And  I  had  a  stone  bruise,  too; 
but  father  never  thought  that  a  stone  bruise 
ought  to  excuse  a  boy  from  work,  and  so  I 
went  on  my  "tippies."  Mother  was  good  on  a 
stone  bruise  with  a  big,  warm  flax  seed  or 
mush  poultice,  or  a  piece  of  fat  meat  at  night. 
In  fact,  mother  knew  a  heap  of  things  to 
help  a  boy  when  he  got  hurt — a  stumped  toe, 
a  splinter  under  his  nail,  or  a  bee  sting — but  a 
stone  bruise  had  to  run  its  course.  I  am  by 
stone  bruises  like  Josh  Billings  was  by  boils: 
"They  are  not  fit  to  be  anywhere  but  on  a 
stick. "  But  I  never  did  like  them.  They 
say  we  ought  not  to  talk  about  folks  we  do 
not  like,  and  I  think  it  a  good  rule. 

To  meet  the  numerous  wants  of  his  family 
for  food  and  clothes,  almost  every  farmer  had, 
in  addition  to  his  main  crops  of  corn  and 
wheat  and  oats,  vegetables  of  all  kinds, 
patches  of  cotton  and  flax,  a  flock  of  sheep, 
a  drove  of  geese,  some  hogs,  a  good  milch  cow 


5° 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


or  two,  a  young  bullock  for  beef  and  his  hide 
for  shoes,  a  few  bee-gums,  and  a  little  tobacco 
around  by  the  pigpens.  We  did  not  have  to 
fence  that,  for  nothing  would  eat  it  but  man 
— and  that  other  big,  nasty  tobacco  worm! 
Look  at  this  list,  and  you  will  see  that  he  had 
his  eye  on  the  coming  wants  of  his  family. 
And  well  he  might,  for  it  all  had  to  come  out 
of  the  farm.  And  mother,  blessed  helpmeet! 
was  just  as  thoughtful  and  wise  as  he  to  utilize 
the  material  furnished  by  the  flocks  and  farm 
to  feed  and  clothe  us  all — cotton  and  flax 
from  the  fields  and  wool  and  hides  from  the 
flocks.  I  never  had  an  article  of  "store 
clothes"  until  I  was  half  grown.  As  for  hats, 
and  shoes,  we  furnished  the  wool  and  hides, 
and  old  Mr.  Blankenship  made  our  wool  hats 
and  Uncle  Sam.  Hogue  made  the  shoes. 
These  were  for  winter.  Our  summer  hats 
mother  and  sisters  made  of  plaited  straw. 
For  summer  shoes  we  wore  our  calf  skins, 
as  we  used  to  say  when  we  turned  barefoot  in 
the  spring.  Corn  was  our  main  crop — corn 
and  hogs,  "hog  and  hominy."  They  say  now 
that  cotton  is  king,  but  not  so  then.  Corn  was 
king. 

When  the  country  had  to  be  redeemed  from 

5i 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

the  Indians  and  the  forests,  corn  was  king. 
The  farmer  who  had  plenty  of  corn  had  both 
bread  and  meat  for  himself  and  family.  Suppose 
our  fathers  had  had  to  depend  on  wheat  for 
their  bread  ?  It  would  have  taken  them  a 
hundred  years  longer  to  reach  the  Rockies. 
Only  think  of  a  pioneer  in  the  woods  depend- 
ing on  wheat  for  bread.  Corn  will  produce 
four  times  as  much  as  wheat  per  acre,  and 
requires  only  one-tenth  of  the  seed  to  seed 
it  down  and  only  one-third  of  the  time  from 
planting  till  it  can  be  used  for  food.  Wheat 
must  have  a  well-prepared  soil,  and  be  sown 
in  the  fall  and  watched  and  guarded  for  nine 
months  before  it  is  even  ready  to  harvest; 
whereas  a  woman  can  take  a  "sang  hoe"  in 
April  and  with  a  quart  of  seed  plant  a  patch 
around  the  cabin,  and  in  six  weeks  she  and  the 
children  can  begin  to  eat  "roastin'  ears;" 
and  when  it  gets  too  hard  for  that,  she  can 
begin  to  parch  it.  She  needed  to  gather  only 
what  she  used  for  the  day;  for  it  will  stand  all 
winter,  well  protected  by  its  waterproof  shucks. 
Not  so  with  wheat.  It  must  be  all  gathered  at 
once  when  ripe,  and  thrashed,  cleaned,  and 
garnered.  And  even  then  it  is  hard  to  get 
bread  out  of  it  without  a  mill.     But  a   small 


52 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


sack  of  parched  corn  with  a  bit  of  salt  was 
an  ample  supply  for  a  ten  days'  hunt  or  a  dash 
with  Jack  Sevier  after  thieving  Indians.  Corn 
was  king  when  I  was  a  boy. 

Mother  and  sisters,  with  Polly  Shook  to  help 
them,  worked  the  cotton  and  wool  and  flax 
into  clothes  and  other  needful  articles  for  the 
family.  I  have  helped  mother  put  many  a 
web  into  the  loom  that  stood  in  the  back  part 
of  the  kitchen.  Speaking  of  Polly  Shook 
brings  up  some  more  boyhood  scenes.  Her 
name  was  Mary,  but  we  always  called  her 
Polly  when  we  did  not  call  her  Pop.  It  fell  to 
me  to  mind  off  the  calves  when  Polly  went  to 
milk — a  duty  I  did  not  take  to  kindly,  for 
sometimes  when  I  took  the  young  sucker 
by  the  ears  to  pull  him  away  he  would  set 
his  sharp  little  hoof  down  on  my  bare  foot, 
and  the  harder  I  pulled  the  harder  he  bored 
his  hoof  into  my  foot.  That  made  me  mad, 
and  I  would  bang  him  over  the  head  with  a 
stick.  Then  Polly  would  shame  me  "for 
striking  the  poor  dumb  brute  that  way."  I 
could  not  see  that  it  was  any  of  her  special 
business,  and  I  would  say  things  to  that  effect 
to  her.  She  was  not  tongue-tied,  so  she  would 
say  things  back.     One  day  I  said  to  mother : 


53 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

"I  don't  like  to  mind  the  calves  off  for  Pop" — 
that  is  what  I  called  her  when  I  was  mad — 
"for  she  quarrels  with  me."  Now  mother 
knew  Polly,  and  she  knew  me,  too.  So  she 
said  she  could  tell  how  to  manage  so  that 
Polly  would  not  quarrel  with  me.  That 
interested  me  very  much,  for  I  wanted  to  get 
the  upper  hand  of  Polly  and  make  her  hold 
her  tongue.  I  said:  "How,  mamma?"  With 
a  touch  of  whisper  in  her  voice,  mother  said: 
"The  next  time  you  go  to  milk  just  go  by  the 
water  bucket  and  get  your  mouth  full  of  cold 
water  and  keep  it  there  till  the  milking  is  over, 
and  Polly  can't  quarrel  with  you  one  bit." 
"Good,"  thought  I.  And  I  could  hardly 
wait  for  milking  time  to  come,  so  anxious  was 
I  to  try  my  witchery  on  Polly.  When  the 
time  came  and  she  started  with  her  milk  pail, 
I  ran  to  the  water  bucket  and  got  my  mouth 
chock  full  of  water  and  started  for  the  bars. 
I  minded  off  the  calves,  watching  Polly  all  the 
while  to  see  if  she  was  going  to  quarrel  with 
me.  As  soon  as  she  was  done  milking  and  the 
bars  were  put  up,  I  spurted  the  water  out  and 
ran  to  mother.  "Mamma,  mamma!  She 
never  quarreled  one  bit."  Mother  smiled  and 
said:     "I  told  you  so."     And  there  is  where 


54 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


the  laugh  comes  in;  but  I,  little  goose,  did  not 
know  it.  However,  there  is  something  in  it. 
I  have  seen  many  a  quarrel  that  never 
would  have  occurred  if  one  of  the  parties 
had  had  cold  water  in  his  mouth.  Try  it  with 
little  brother  next  time  he  is  Sir  Touch-me-not, 
and  see  if  little  sister  can  quarrel  with  him. 

I  think  likely  that  if  our  young  people  should 
read  this  brief  and  imperfect  outline  of  life 
as  we  lived  it  seventy  years  ago  they  would  say: 
"Well,  that  was  all  work  and  no  play,  and  I 
I  don't  see  how  any  one  could  be  happy  with 
that  sort  of  dry,  tread-mill  kind  of  life."  Well, 
we  did  have  to  work,  and  had  but  little  time 
or  opportunity  for  what  men  call  amusements 
nowadays.  And  yet,  believe  me,  we  were  a 
happy  family,  both  young  and  old.  How  was 
it  ?  Well,  maybe  I  can  give  some  satisfactory 
explanation  of  it,  its  how  and  why,  the  next 
time  we  have  a  talk. 


55 


VII 
OUR  COUNTRY  LIFE 

REMEMBER  that  at  the  close 
of  the  last  chapter  of  "Recollec- 
tions" I  half-way  promised  to 
explain  for  our  young  people 
how  and  why  the  simple  life, 
as  we  lived  it  on  the  farm  seventy  years  ago, 
was  a  happy  life;  but  now  I  almost  wish  I  had 
not  done  so,  for  it  takes  me  off  from  my 
original  purpose  to  write  recollections.  How- 
ever, we  can  make  short  work  of  this  and  go 
on  to  our  regular  line.  \  •••* 

Mr.  Editor,  begging  your  pardon,  I  thought 
I  put  enough  in  the  last  "turn"  I  sent  to  your 
mill  to  make  two  grists,  but  you  poured  it  all 
into  the  hopper  at  once.  Well,  Mr.  Editor, 
you  are  the  miller  and  know  what  you  want; 
but  you  do  not  know  how  much  raking  and 
winnowing  it  takes  to  get  even  a  little  grain 
out  of  the  straw  and  chaff  which  have  accumu- 
lated on  the  thrashing  floor  of  an  old  man's 
recollections.  Friends,  I  know  how  it  comes 
about  that  he  thinks  I  am  wiser  than  I  am: 
I  was  president  of  a  college,  with  a  hundred 


56 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


and  seventy-five  young  ladies  in  attendance, 
in  his  town  when  he  yet  had  his  milk  teeth 
and  wore  his  bib;  and  he  got  the  childish  im- 
pression that  a  man  must  be  very  wise  to  hold 
such  a  position,  and  these  early  impressions, 
as  usual,  seem  to  be  lasting.  But  he  is  old 
enough  now  to  know  that  not  every  man  who 
is  president  of  a  college  knows  it  all.  Yes, 
he  is  old  enough  to  know  better  than  that,  and 
to  get  married. 

Well,  we  all  had  some  profitable  work  to 
do,  we  were  never  idle,  and,  therefore,  never 
restlessly  looking  about  for  something  with 
which  to  fill  up  the  dull  hours,  thinking  of 
what  to  do  or  where  to  go  to  find  entertain- 
ment. Thus  occupied,  we  were  contented; 
and  more,  we  were  safe  at  home  with  father 
and  mother.    Take  this  for  explanation  No.  i. 

Next,  our  tastes  were  simple  and  our  needs 
few.  As  for  the  substantial  comforts  of  life — 
food  and  raiment — we  had  them  sufficient  to 
meet  our  real  needs  and  gratify  our  simple 
tastes,  and  so  were  satisfied.  For  our  plain 
food,  a  few  hours'  work  on  the  farm  gave  us 
an  appetite  that  was  better  than  a  French 
cook.  Thank  God  for  the  luxury  or  a  healthy 
appetite — the    appetite    of    a    plowboy — that 


57 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

wakes  up  with  him  in  the  morning  to  munch 
that  big,  yellow  Hoss  apple  that  he  stuffed 
into  his  pocket  yesterday  when  he  was  down 
in  the  orchard!  No  going  to  the  breakfast 
table  with  a  sort  of  loathing  and  half  disgust 
of  everything  there,  and  the  need  of  a  little 
coffee  to  tease  it  to  work;  no  indigestion — 
moping  mother  of  the  twins,  Melancholy  and 
Moroseness,  firstborn  in  the  family  of  Dis- 
content, whose  children  are  Petulance  and 
Peevishness,  prone  to  talk  too  much,  and 
whose  ungracious  words  hiss  and  sting  like  a 
mad  bee,  leaving  a  smart,  if  not  a  scar,  for 
days  to  come. 

Yes,  thank  God  for  the  farmer  boy's  appe- 
tite and  sound  digestion,  for  they  send  his  rich 
life-giving  blood  to  put  roses  on  his  cheeks  and 
iron  in  his  muscles,  and  make  his  hoecake  a 
luxury!  I  defy  any  caterer  for  any  club  to 
furnish  at  any  cost  a  banquet  that  will  be 
enjoyed  as  much  as  we  children  enjoyed 
mother's  mush  suppers.  The  truth  is,  mother 
could  make  the  best  mush  mortal  man  or  boy 
ever  ate.  She  did  not  put  in  much  meal  at  a 
time,  added  it  slowly,  stirring  it  all  the  while, 
so  as  not  to  have  lumps  in  it  nor  have  it  raw  in 
the  center,  then  cooked  it  half  an  hour. 

58 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


"Hasty  pudding"  is  a  misnomer  when 
applied  to  mush.  Mother  always  said  it  took 
a  full  half  hour  to  cook  mush  well;  but  it 
seemed  longer  than  that  to  me  as  I  watched  the 
operation,  my  mouth  watering  all  the  while. 
Then  each  one  with  a  bowl  of  milk  and  a  big 
spoon — a  pewter  spoon,  at  that.  Now  Miss 
Angelina  Cherubina  Seraphina,  please  don't 
turn  up  your  nose  at  that  pewter  spoon.  I 
don't  hone  after  pewter  spoons  myself  these 
latter  days,  but  that  was  mother's  spoon, 
given  to  her  as  a  part  of  her  wedding  portion 
from  her  father,  and  as  good  as  the  country 
then  afforded.  And  I  hold  myself  ready  at 
the  sword's  point  to  resent  any  insult  a  pert 
miss  may  offer  by  snubbing  it.  There  now; 
you  understand  that  Miss  A.  C.  S.,  once  for  all. 

I  should  fail  in  much  if  I  did  not  mention 
the  glorious  sleep  of  the  farmer  boy  as  one  of 
the  good  things  that  belonged  to  his  life. 
Yes,  thank  God  for  that  sound  and  restful 
sleep  of  a  fellow  when  he  was  a  plowboy  tired! 
It  came  uncourted  about  the  time  the  whip- 
poor-will  began  his  song  in  the  copse  at  the 
back  of  the  field — a  luxury  unknown  to  night 
revelers,  and  never  followed  by  a  bursting 
headache    in    the    morning.     The    question, 


59 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

"  Wherewithal  shall  we  be  clothed  ?"  when 
we  went  to  church  or  to  visit  our  neighbors 
was  a  very  simple  one. 

Neither  the  weather  nor  the  hour  of  the  day 
cut  any  figure  in  that  grave  problem;  whether 
it  was  a  bright  or  a  dull  day,  noon  or  night,  no 
matching  of  colors  or  puzzling  as  to  the  par- 
ticular suit  we  should  wear  for  that  special 
occasion.  I  knew  a  week  before  the  wedding 
came  off  just  what  suit  I  would  wear — my 
mixed  jeans,  the  same  I  had  been  wearing  to 
all  the  big  quiltings  and  singing  schools  for 
weeks  past — "Hobson's  choice,"  The  oneness 
in  the  case  simplified  the  question  very  much, 
you  see.  I  said  "case,"  but  they  were  not  in  a 
case — they  hung  on  a  peg  with  my  flax  shirt 
behind  the  door.  No  bother  as  to  what  or 
where.  The  fact  is,  friends,  young  and  old, 
the  question  of  physical  comfort  is  in  itself 
a  simple  one,  and  its  demands  are  few  and 
easily  met.  It  is  only  when  the  clamorous 
desire  for  show  and  shine  comes  in,  with  its 
complex  demands,  that  the  everlasting  worry 
of  life  begins.  Pride  and  Vanity  are  the 
prolific  parents  of  the  peevish  brood  that  is 
hounding  good  Comfort  and  sweet  Content- 
ment out  of  the  land.     And  mark  my  words, 

60 


Seventy  Years  in  T)ixie 


they  are  of  little  use  in  the  formation  of  happi- 
ness of  the  noblest  men  and  women. 

As  to  amusements  (better  called  pleasant 
occasions),  we  were  not  wholly  without  them. 
We  knew  the  happy  art  of  combining  work 
and  pleasure.  Our  log-rollings,  house-raisings, 
corn-shuckings,  quiltings,  singing  schools,  and 
an  occasional  dash  with  the  dogs  after  a  deer 
or  fox  were  seasons  of  real  enjoyment.  The 
quiltings  we  were  careful  to  bracket  with  the 
others  wherever  we  could;  thus,  a  house- 
raising  and  quilting,  at  such  and  such  a  home, 
day  and  date,  or  a  log-rolling  and  quilting. 
The  quilting  brought  out  the  girls,  who  were, 
and  always  have  been,  essential  to  a  good  social 
time,  I  reckon.  "Well/'  you  say,  "if  you 
could  find  pleasure  in  tugging  your  arms  off 
rolling  logs  and  wearing  your  finger  tips  sore 
at  a  corn-shucking,  you  must  have  been  easily 
pleased."  Even  so,  even  so — happy  faculty, 
secret  of  a  contented  life,  easily  pleased ;  sweet 
bud  from  the  plant,  heart's-ease,  that  flowers 
and  fruits  in  the  life  of  our  best  friends  and 
companions.     Grow  it  in  your  garden,  child. 

Well,  talking  about  old  house-raising  and 
quilting  days  of  my  boyhood  brings  to  mind 
many  cherished  recollections  of  the  long  ago — 


61 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

pleasing  scenes  and  youthful  friends — brave, 
frank,  generous  young  fellows,  country  born 
and  bred,  who  would  scorn  to  do  an  unmanly 
or  ignoble  thing;  and,  as  they  pass  before  my 
eyes,  half  filled  with  tears  at  this  moment,  I 
recall  with  unfeigned  pleasure  the  fact  that 
they  were  nearly  everyone  religious.  As 
for  the  girls  (that  is  what  we  called  them  in 
those  days),  a  whole  bevy  of  them  comes 
trooping  by  this  minute.  Not  mincing  in 
patent  leather  slippers  and  crepitating  silks, 
but  walking  with  an  elastic  step  that  tells  of 
healthy  muscles,  arrayed  in  gowns  woven  and 
fashioned  by  their  own  industrious  fingers, 
with  now  and  then  a  burst  of  hearty  laughter 
and  a  snatch  of  song — all  merry  as  a  flock  of 
bobolinks  in  springtime.  And  there  among 
them  is  my  first  old  sweetheart,  Phoebe  Steed. 
See,  her  modesty  has  half  hidden  her  in  the 
group  (as  the  daisy  peeps  from  behind  a  leaf 
in  the  grass).  Her  willowy  grace  of  move- 
ment was  the  rhythm  of  motion,  her  voice 
gentle  and  musical  as  the  harp  of  the  wind 
god,  and  a  heart  and  life  as  pure  as  snow  twice 
washed.  Did  I  love  her  ?  Don't  talk  of  love 
till  you  know  something  of  the  swellings  of 
the  heart  in  a  sixteen-year-old  country  boy  who 

62 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


has  just  begun  to  stand  before  the  looking 
glass  and  roach  his  hair  and  paste  it  down 
with  bear's  grease.  Did  I  marry  her?  No; 
we  were  never  engaged.  She  married  a  better 
man,  Wm.  Horton,  as  she  deserved  to  do,  while 
I  was  away  at  college. 

That  singing  school!  We  met  on  Saturdays 
and  sang  all  day.  Our  book  was  the  "Knox- 
ville  Harmony/'  by  John  B.  Jackson,  pub- 
lished at  Knoxville.  It  was  written  in  four 
syllables — fa,  sol,  la,  mi.  It  was  several  years 
later  when  the  seven  syllables  were  introduced. 
Andrew  Hutsell  was  our  teacher.  We  sang 
four  parts — bass,  tenor,  alto,  and  treble.  My! 
my!  How  Will  Cassady  and  Urb  Rudd  and 
Wash  Peck,  in  his  new  suit  of  jeans,  did  roar 
on  the  bass!  Boys  and  girls  both  sang  on  the 
tenor  (air),  Phoebe  Steed  and  Myra  Gaston 
led  the  treble,  and  the  Misses  Howard,  two 
beautiful  sisters,  "carried"  the  alto.  Usually 
we  had  two  recesses,  when  a  walk  to  the  spring 
or  a  stroll  in  the  grove  gave  us  the  coveted 
opportunity  for  social  enjoyment.  Then  the 
noonday  lunch,  when  the  girls  took  all  our 
baskets  and  spread  a  common  meal  on  the 
homemade  table  cloth  under  the  long-armed 
elm  by  the  spring.     The  day  done,  we  took  the 


63 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

girls  home — all  on  horseback.  How  we  boys 
did  curry  and  comb  the  mane  and  tails  of  our 
colts  to  have  them  ready  to  prance  at  the 
Saturday's  singing!  And  with  what  marvel- 
ous art  and  ease  those  girls  would  spring  from 
the  top  of  that  old  chestnut  stump  into  their 
saddles,  and  adjust  their  riding  skirts  for 
grace  and  safety  in  managing  their  horses,  now 
grown  restless  from  having  been  hitched  up  all 
day!  And  the  horsemanlike  skill  with  which 
Lizzie  Noel  did  curb  that  mettlesome  bay 
would  shame  the  best  jockey  of  to-day. 
Country  lasses,  happy  lasses,  good-by.  I 
never  expect  to  see  your  equals  any  more  on 
earth.  And  now  if  the  young  people  of  to-day 
are  happier  and  safer  than  we  were  on  the 
farm  seventy  years  ago — why,  I  am  glad  of  it. 
That  is  all. 


64 


VIII 

LOVE  FEASTS  AND  CLASS 
MEETINGS 

HESE  chapters  have  run  in  a 
somewhat  similar  strain  long 
enough.  Let  us  vary  the  exer- 
cises, as  the  preacher  would  say, 
and  hold  an  "experience  meet- 
ing/' I  like  experience  meetings,  especially 
when  I  feel  religious,  and  I  believe  most 
people  do  under  similar  circumstances.  As 
a  Church  we  have  used  this  kind  of  ser- 
vice with  great  spiritual  profit.  The  love 
feast  and  the  class  meeting  were  of  this  char- 
acter. The  love  feast  is  still  known  among 
us,  often  in  a  very  modified  form.  But  many 
of  our  young  people,  even  members  of  the 
Church,  who  have  never  attended  a  class  meet- 
ing, know  nothing  of  them,  how  they  are  con- 
ducted, or  why  established.  The  love  feast 
was  more  a  testimony  meeting,  while  the  class 
meeting  was  designed  as  a  special  opportunity 
for  helpful  oversight,  counsel,  and  exhortation 
by  one  called  the  leader.  The  old  preachers 
used  to  set  great  store  by  these  meetings. 
A  few  sentences  giving  an  account  of  them, 

65 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

I  think,  may  meet  the  approval  of  the  reader, 
and  at  least  preserve  some  knowledge  of  a 
religious  exercise  so  much  esteemed  in  the 
early  history  of  the  Church. 

They  were  peculiar  to  us  as  people,  and 
subjected  us  to  criticism,  and  sometimes  to 
ridicule.  They  were  primarily  and  almost 
exclusively  designed  for  members  of  the 
Church.  Strangers  and  outsiders  were  allowed 
to  be  present  as  a  special  privilege.  The 
exercises  consisted  in  an  inquiry  by  the  leader 
into  the  spiritual  condition  of  the  members, 
particularly  the  younger  members  of  the  class, 
and  giving  such  admonition  and  exhortation 
and  encouragement  as  might  be  needed  and 
helpful.  And  many  young  Christians  had 
occasion  to  bless  God  for  such  help.  The 
preacher  in  charge  usually  held  class  meeting 
immediately  after  services.  I  think  I  never 
knew  Uncle  George  Ekin  to  fail.  They  called 
it  "meeting  the  class"  and  the  preacher  was 
leader. 

The  class  book  was  an  interesting  and 
important  volume.  It  contained  the  names  of 
the  leaders  and  the  members,  usually  in 
families.  It  was  ruled  in  columns  running 
perpendicularly  and   marked   so  as  to  show 

66 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


at  a  glance  the  following  facts:  The  first 
column  was  to  show  whether  the  member  was 
married  or  single,  and  was  marked  M  or  S; 
the  second  column  was  to  indicate  the  spiritual 
condition  of  the  member,  whether  a  believer 
or  seeker,  and  was  marked  B  or  S;  the  third 
column  recorded  the  amount  of  quarterage 
paid  by  that  member;  the  other  columns  were 
marked  P  or  A  or  D,  for  present  or  absent  or 
distant  (from  home).  The  roll  was  called  at 
every  meeting,  unless  the  leader  knew  who 
were  there  and  so  marked  the  book.  This 
book  was  inspected  by  the  pastor  at  every 
round,  if  he  desired  it,  and  furnished  him 
particular  information  concerning  every  mem- 
ber of  that  class.  If  a  member  were  absent 
twice  consecutively,  the  leader  called  to  see  if 
he  were  sick.  The  preacher  would  sometimes 
say  to  me,  with  kindly  concern,  after  looking 
over  our  class  book:  "David,  I  see  you  were 
not  at  class  the  last  time."  Ah,  those  frequent 
reckonings  with  self  and  one  another  wrought 
careful  living  and  much  prayer  in  a  boy,  as  I 
well  remember.  /  know  no  adequate  substi- 
tute. But  I  rejoice  in  all  our  young  people's 
meetings,  and  pray  God  to  make  and  keep 
them  spiritual.     But  I  proposed  to  have  an 


67 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

experience  meeting,  and  here  I  am  writing 
about  an  experience  meeting.  Did  you  ever 
notice  how  much  easier  it  is  to  talk  about  a 
thing  than  it  is  to  do  or  be  that  thing — to  talk 
about  religion  than  it  is  to  be  religious,  to  talk 
about  charity  than  to  be  charitable  ?  There 
is  a  man  staying  here  in  my  room  and  sleeping 
in  my  bed  who  has  made  observations  and  had 
experience  on  that  very  subject,  and  he  some- 
times gives  me  a  dig  in  the  ribs  about  it. 
Have  you  ever  had  such  a  fellow  about  your 
house  ? 

And  now,  kind  reader,  let  me  explain  a  little 
about  the  next  few  chapters  of  these  recollec- 
tions. Two  years  ago  my  children  asked  me 
to  write  out  for  their  use  my  early  life — that 
part  with  which  they  were  not  acquainted.  I 
copy  in  part  from  that  sketch,  which  will  ex- 
plain why  certain  family  affairs  are  made 
prominent.  It  was  for  the  children  to  read  at 
their  leisure.     Thus : 

I  was  converted,  as  I  verily  believe,  on  a 
cold  Sunday  in  the  old  log  church  in  the  town 
of  Athens,  Tenn.,  when  I  was  in  my  twelfth 
year.  Our  place  of  worship  was  two  miles  in 
the  country,  at  Cedar  Springs;  but  occasionally 
when  there  were  no  services  at  our  church,  we 

68 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


went  to  town  to  preaching.  It  was  a  cold  day; 
but  my  parents  were  going  to  church,  and 
father  asked  me  if  I  did  not  want  to  go. 
So  I  got  my  colt,  and  was  looking  about  for  a 
saddle  when  my  father  said:  "Son,  I  don't 
think  I  would  get  a  saddle;  just  spread  your 
blanket  on  the  colt,  and  he  will  keep  you 
warmer  than  if  you  had  a  saddle. "  So  I  did, 
and  we  went  to  church.  Rev.  Frank  Fanning 
was  the  preacher.  There  were  not  twenty 
persons  present,  perhaps — just  a  few  old 
people  hovering  around  the  stove.  I  sat  with 
my  hands  between  my  knees  to  keep  them 
warm,  and  listened  to  the  preacher.  He 
preached  about  Jesus,  but  what  he  said  I  do 
not  know.  But  there  came  into  my  childish 
heart  a  feeling  unknown  before — a  strange 
sense  of  the  nearness  and  love  of  Jesus,  of 
whom  mother  had  so  often  spoken  to  me.  I 
felt  that  I  loved  him.  A  simple,  childlike 
tenderness  filled  my  heart  and  I  felt  that  he 
loved  me.  It  was  a  most  delightful  sensation. 
I  think  I  wept  for  very  joy,  but  said  nothing. 
It  was  all  so  new  and  strange  and  sweet  that  I 
knew  nothing  to  say.  I  looked  over  to  the 
seat  where  father  and  mother  were  seated,  and 
such  a  flood  of  love  for  them  swept  through 


69 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

me  that  I  could  hardly  repress  the  desire  to 
run  and  hug  them.  I  did  actually  love  every- 
body and  everything.  And  that  sweet  feeling 
stayed  with  me  after  the  benediction,  and  went 
home  with  me  and  made  the  colt  ride  better. 
His  coltish  ways,  worming  in  and  out  of  the 
road,  did  not  fret  me.  It  stayed  with  me  all 
about  the  house  and  barn,  singing  in  my  heart 
when  alone  in  the  woods;  and  I  wanted  to 
pray,  and  did  not  want  my  dog  to  catch  that 
little  rabbit  and  kill  it.  Do  you  ask,  "What 
was  it  ?"  I  never  once  thought  what  it  was. 
I  was  happy  and  peaceful,  and  everybody 
was  good,  and  that  was  enough.  Sometimes  I 
would  stay  around  mother  and  wish  she  would 
tell  me  to  do  something,  that  I  might  have 
the  pleasure  of  showing  her  how  quickly  and 
well  I  could  do  it.  It  did  not  occur  to  me  that 
I  had  religion.  Indeed,  I  hardly  thought  a 
boy  could  get  religion  except  at  Cedar  Springs 
Camp  Meeting.  But  that  sweet,  love-every- 
body  feeling  staid  with  me  till  camp  meeting. 
I  was  glad  when  that  came.  At  the  first  call 
I  went  to  the  mourners'  bench,  and  down  in 
the  straw  father  and  mother  and  brother 
and  sister  came,  and  we  prayed  together, 
and  I  began  to    laugh   and  hug  them.       It 


70 


Seventy  Years  in  T)ixie 


was  the  same  old  feeling  of  love  and  tender- 
ness which  I  felt  on  the  cold  Sunday  six 
months  before.  I  said:  "I've  got  religion. 
Hallelujah!"  It  was  true,  and  I  have  never 
had  any  better,  and  all  I  want  now  is  more  of 
it.  So  I  sometimes  tell  my  friends  that  I  was 
converted  six  months  before  I  got  religion. 
Maybe  somebody  will  look  religiously  wise 
and  shake  his  theological  head  at  this.  But 
if  you  will  be  careful  to  use  these  terms  in  the 
sense  here  employed,  I  do  not  believe  they  will 
hurt  your  good  creed,  and  perhaps  maybe 
help  somebody  who  does  not  know  what 
religion  is. 

Our  good  Dr.  Tillett,  who  wrote  that  wise 
and  helpful  book,  "Personal  Salvation/'  can 
make  this  clear  to  the  young  theologues  if  he 
has  a  mind  to;  and  when  he  has  done  so,  I  will 
be  for  once  in  my  life  like  General  Jackson. 
When  Calhoun  was  firing  the  heart  of  South 
Carolina  with  the  spirit  of  nullification,  the 
General  sent  word,  "Tell  Calhoun  that  if  he 
don't  behave  himself  I'll  hang  him  as  high  as 
Haman,"  but  did  not  tell  him  why.  Sometime 
afterwards,  when  Daniel  Webster,  in  an  argu- 
ment, showed  that  logical  nullification  could 
not  exist  under  the  Constitution,  Jackson  said: 


71 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

"There,  I  knew  I  was  right  all  the  time/'  It  is 
said  that  he  put  in  some  words  to  give  emphasis 
to  his  utterance.  Here  is  the  law  on  this 
subject:  "He  that  loveth  is  born  of  God." 
Now  let  us  sing  with  Mrs.  Prentiss  No.  367. 
And  as  the  disciplinary  "one  hour"  for  love 
feast  is  now  out,  we  will  for  the  next  chapter 
have  the  experience  meeting  continued. 


72 


IX 
EARLY  SCHOOL  DATS 

Y  place  was  on  the  farm  till  I 
was  about  eight  years  old, 
with  father  and  mother, 
happy  brothers  and  sisters; 
often  in  the  field  with  play- 
ful colts,  skipping  lambs,  singing  birds, 
and  my  ever-present  dog — a  happy  boy.  I 
went  to  school  two  or  three  months  during 
the  winter  till  I  was  fifteen.  These  were  sub- 
scription schools,  made  up  and  supported  by 
the  neighbors.  We  had  no  public  schools 
then.  The  first  school  I  attended  was  at 
Rocky  Mountain,  on  the  back  of  my  father's 
farm.  The  little  house  was  made  of  logs 
with  the  bark  on,  a  weight-pole  roof  (I  have 
not  time  to  explain  that  term  to  the  ignorance 
of  to-day)  and  puncheon  floor.  The  only 
window  was  made  by  cutting  out  a  log  ten  or 
twelve  feet  long.  Under  this  opening  was  a 
slab,  resting  on  pegs,  which  made  a  sort  of 
shelf  upon  which  the  larger  boys  and  girls 
wrote.     The   ink  was   made   of  ink   balls — 


73 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

a  sort  of  vegetable  excrescence,  sometimes 
formed  on  the  twigs  or  leaves  of  oak  trees, 
containing  a  substance  which  turned  black 
on  exposure  to  the  air — or  of  polk-berry  juice 
or  elder  berries.  This  was  kept  in  a  small 
vial  with  a  string  around  the  neck  to  hang  it 
up  by  when  not  held  in  the  hand  for  use.  The 
benches  were  slabs  with  peg  legs.  Here  I 
learned  to  spell.  When  I  learned  my  A  B  C's 
I  do  not  know.  After  I  was  fifteen,  I  had  two 
years  at  Forest  Hill  Academy,  under  Charles 
Patrick  Samuel,  a  tall,  scholarly  Kentuckian — 
"Old  Pat,"  of  blessed  memory.  After  this  I 
went  to  Emory  and  Henry  College. 

I  mention  a  sad  providence  which  led  to 
my  going  when  I  did.  My  brother,  Timothy, 
who  was  fifteen  years  my  senior  and  had  been 
a  member  of  the  Holston  Conference  thirteen 
or  fourteen  years,  was  stricken  with  paralysis 
while  on  his  way  to  the  Annual  Conference, 
which  met  that  year  at  Wytheville,  Va. 
He  was  at  Abingdon  when  stricken.  The 
report  of  this  affliction  saddened  all  hearts  at 
home.  In  a  very  few  days  father  decided  to 
send  me  to  Virginia.  First,  to  nurse  my 
brother  if  he  needed  me;  and  if  not,  then  I  was 
to  sell  my  horse  and  go  on  to  college,  ten  miles 


74 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


farther  east.  How  this  conclusion  stirred  the 
household,  and  especially  the  boyish  heart  of 
the  writer  and  that  of  his  mother,  will  never 
be  forgotten.  I  was  soon  fitted  out  for  the 
trip,  and  the  morning  for  my  departure  had 
come.  Family  prayers  that  morning  were 
perhaps  a  little  longer  and  tenderer  than  usual, 
and  breakfast  was  almost  in  silence.  Mother 
cried,  and  I  said:  "Don't  cry,  mother.  I  will 
soon  be  back."  She  replied:  "No  my  son, 
not  back  with  us  at  home.  When  you  have 
finished  your  college  course  you  will  go  to  $our 
life  work,  and  only  be  a  visitor  at  home  here- 
after." Two  older  brothers  had  gone  off  to 
college,  and  mother  knew.  "A  visitor  only 
hereafter."  I  could  not  realize  it,  and  yet  so 
it  was.  My  outfit  was  not  elaborate.  A  pair 
of  saddlebags  contained  all,  save  a  suit  of 
mixed  jeans,  which  had  been  taken  from  the 
back  of  our  sheep  and  fitted  to  mine.  A  small 
muskrat-colored  Indian  pony,  fourteen  hands 
high  and  badly  sway-backed,  had  to  carry  me 
and  all  I  had  two  hundred  miles.  I  left  home, 
mother  standing  nearest  the  gate  to  say  good- 
by  last,  and  brother  going  two  miles  on  the  way 
to  see  me  get  a  good  start.  We  rode  side  by 
side  those  two  miles,   almost  in  silence.     A 


75 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

word  or  two  about  my  pony  and  a  passing 
remark  about  the  weather  and  a  last  injunction 
about  my  dogs.  He  ventured  to  say:  "We  will 
miss  you  at  home  and  at  the  coming  Christ- 
mas." And  then  there  came  a  choking  sensa- 
tion, and  maybe  a  tear,  but  no  audible  answer. 
Finally  he  said:  "Well,  I  must  go  back. 
Take  care  of  yourself.  Write  often,  for  we  will 
all  want  to  know  about  you  and  brother 
Timothy.  Good-by."  And  his  horse's  head 
was  turned  toward  home — the  dear  old  home; 
how  dear,  I  never  knew  before.  My  pony 
and  I  faced  for  the  first  time  the  great  unknown 
outside  world.  Day  and  hour  never  to  be 
forgotten.  Brother — dear  fellow — he  was  as 
tender  as  a  woman,  lived  a  long  bachelor 
life,  fought  through  the  Civil  War  with  Lee, 
and  now  sleeps  the  Christian's  hopeful  sleep 
near  Wolf  City,  in  Texas. 

By  a  previous  agreement,  Ben  Hale,  a  boy 
about  my  age  living  in  the  upper  end  of  the 
county,  was  to  join  me  a  few  miles  farther  on. 
In  the  meantime  thoughts  crowded  each 
other  in  rapid  succession — now  back  home  with 
loved  ones  a  moment,  and  then  back  to  myself 
and  surroundings.  Of  what  was  in  my 
saddlebags    I    knew   but   little.     Father   and 

76 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


mother  and  sister  had  furnished  and  packed 
them,  and  whatever  belonged  to  me  I  knew 
was  there,  be  it  little  or  much.  But  here  is 
Ben  waiting  by  the  roadside,  and  I  am  glad  to 
see  him — a  hearty  country  boy  on  a  good  horse, 
going  to  visit  his  army  of  kinsfolk — the  Hales 
and  Canutts  and  Wards,  etc.,  in  Grayson 
County,  Va.  A  jolly  fellow  on  a  visit  to  spend 
Christmas  with  his  kindred.  And  now  I  shall 
have  the  pleasure  of  leaving  off  in  my  narrative 
the  oft-recurring  "I,"  and  say  "we"  without 
affectation  of  being  an  editor.  We  (Ben  and 
I)  moved  on,  and  about  noon  passed  in  sight 
of  Daniel  HeiskelPs  home,  the  road  running 
through  the  woods,  where  Sweetwater  now 
stands.  We  pressed  on,  making  good  use  of 
the  short  December  day,  and  ate  our  lunch 
as  we  rode  along.  When  I  opened  mine  and 
found  a  ham  sandwich  and  some  buttered 
biscuits  with  jam  between,  a  hard-boiled 
egg,  and  an  apple,  it  all  looked  so  much  like 
mother  and  sister  that,  had  it  been  practicable, 
I  think  I  would  have  preferred  to  keep  it  as  a 
souvenir,  rather  than  eat  it. 

Soon  we  passed  the  old  town  of  Philadelphia, 
and  came  to  Blair's  Ferry,  on  the  Tennessee 
River,  where  Loudon  has  since  been  built. 


77 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

We  crossed  the  river  and  urged  our  tired 
horses  four  miles  more  to  Mr.  John  Browder's, 
an  old  friend  of  my  father,  two  miles  west  of 
what  is  now  Lenoir  City.  Here  we  spent  the 
night — our  first  night  from  home.  But  we 
slept  like  tired  boys,  and  were  up  early  and 
ready  for  our  second  day.  This  day  we  passed 
by  the  home  of  William  Lenoir,  where  Lenoir 
City  now  stands,  and  the  home  of  Rev.  John 
Winton,  great-grandfather  of  Dr.  G.  B.  Win- 
ton,  editor  of  the  Christian  Advocate.  We 
finally  reached  Knoxville,  where  I  had  a 
brother-in-law  (Dr.  A.  Woodward),  and  sister. 
Sister  made  us  feel  at  home.  The  next  day, 
in  the  evening,  we  rode  out  ten  miles  on  the 
Rutledge  Road,  and  spent  the  night  with  Mr. 
R.  L.  Blair,  the  uncle  of  a  young  lady  whose 
acquaintance  I  made  seven  years  later  and  who 
will  come  into  these  reminiscences  after  a 
while  if  they  are  not  cut  short  in  some  way. 
The  next  day  we  passed  the  town  of  Rutledge 
and  the  celebrated  Bean's  Station,  often 
mentioned  in  the  journal  of  Bishop  Asbury. 
Here  the  Kentucky  escorts  used  to  come  over 
the  mountains  to  meet  him  and  conduct  and 
guard  him  over  the  Clinch  Mountain,  through 
Cumberland  Gap,  to  the  "dark  and  bloody 

78 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


ground"  of  Kentucky.  Two  miles  east  we 
came  to  what  is  now  the  very  noted  Tate 
Springs,  but  we  saw  only  the  rounded  hills 
there.  By  night  we  reached  the  village  of 
Mooresburg,  and  spent  the  night  at  the  Red 
Bridge,  a  little  farther  on. 

The  fifth  day  we  passed  the  good  town  of 
Rogersville,  and  on  up  the  beautiful  valley 
to  Mr.  Phipps\  This  was  a  home  of  wealth, 
and  gave  us  a  royal  entertainment;  and  here  we 
got  a  glimpse  of  the  very  beautiful  daughter 
of  the  household,  who  seemed  a  bit  interested 
in  a  couple  of  tired  boys  who  had  stopped  for 
a  night's  rest.  I  had  the  opportunity  in  after 
years  to  thank  her  for  it,  which  I  did  with  all 
the  grace  I  could  muster.  It  was  apparent 
from  some  talk  next  day  that  Ben  had  an  eye 
for  a  beautiful  girl,  elegantly  dressed.  Indeed, 
the  Hales  of  Virginia  are  built  that  way,  as  I 
found  out  later.  This  day  brought  us  to  the 
boat  yard,  where  two  branches  of  the  Holston 
River  come  together,  now  Kingsport — so 
named  perhaps  because  William  King,  who 
owned  the  salt  works  in  Virginia,  boated  his 
salt  down  the  north  fork  of  the  Holston  River 
to  that  point.  It  was  now  growing  colder,  and 
we    pressed    on    to    Mr.    David    Shaver's — 


79 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

twenty-seven  miles  yet  to  Abingdon.  Here  we 
spent  the  night. 

Next  morning  the  snow  was  two  or  three 
inches  deep,  and  increased  in  depth  until  we 
reached  Abingdon,  where  it  was  eight  or  ten 
inches  deep.  This  I  had  good  reason  to 
remember:  for  if  my  pony  got  out  of  the 
beaten  way,  I  had  to  hold  up  my  feet  to  keep 
them  from  dragging  in  the  snow.  As  we 
entered  the  town  I  asked  the  first  man  we  met 
for  information  as  to  my  brother.  He  told  me 
he  was  at  John  Campbell's  on  the  next  street. 
Ben  and  I  said  good-bye,  and  I  turned  to  find 
brother.  In  a  few  minutes  I  was  in  his  room, 
to  his  great  surprise,  and  to  my  delight  found 
him  much  improved.  I  had  a  brother-in-law 
(H.  Card  well),  and  sister  living  in  the  town. 
Soon  they  called;  and  as  brother  had  a  nurse 
and  did  not  need  me,  I  went  home  with  them, 
a  tired,  but  happy  boy. 

It  was  Christmas  Eve,  and  my  brother, 
Nathan  Asbury,  who  was  a  student  in  the 
college,  only  ten  miles  away,  came  to  spend  the 
holidays  with  us.  After  consultation,  it  was 
decided  that  I  was  not  needed  with  Timothy 
and  that  I  should  enter  the  spring  term  of 
college,  as  father  had  directed.     So  I  sold  my 

80 


Seventy  Years  in  T)ixie 


pony  to  Major  Davis,  who  kept  the  boarding 
house,  for  a  credit  of  forty-five  dollars  on  my 
bill,  took  a  room  with  my  brother,  entered  the 
freshman  class  half  advanced,  joined  the 
Calliopean  Society,  and  settled  down  to  work. 
Here  I  remained  till  June,  1850,  when  I 
graduated  with  the  degree  of  A.B. 


81 


X 


amum 


EARLY  DAYS  AT  EMORY 

OW  that  I  am  back  again  to  my 
college  days,  a  thousand  mem- 
ories come  trooping  up,  and  I 
hesitate  to  attempt  to  make  a 
selection  where  each  is  so  dear. 
It  was  in  the  early  years  of  old  Emory  and 
Henry  history.  There  were  only  three  houses 
there  then:  the  old  college  building  on  the 
hill,  the  brick  house  at  the  west  end  of  the 
campus  (both  still  standing),  and  the  farm 
house  in  which  Mr.  Crawford  lived  when  the 
Church  bought  the  property  (long  since  burn- 
ed). The  faculty  consisted  of  Charles  Col- 
lins, D.D.,  President  and  Professor  of  Mental 
and  Moral  Science;  E.  E.  Wiley,  D.  D.,  Pro- 
fessor of  Latin  and  Greek;  Rev.  Edmond 
Longley,  A.M.,  Professor  of  Mathematics 
and  Modern  Languages;  and  Rev.  J.  A. 
Davis,  tutor.  Dr.  Collins  lived  in  the  house 
on  the  west  end  of  the  campus.  Dr.  Wiley 
lived  in  two  or  three  lower  rooms  in  the 
west  end  of  the  college.  Professor  Longley 
lived  over  on  the  stage  road,   a  mile  away. 


82 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


Tutor  Davis,  unmarried,  took  his  meals  at 
the  common  boarding  house  (the  Crawford 
home),  of  which  his  father,  Major  Joseph 
Davis,  was  proprietor.  Professor  Longley 
("Old  Brit'')  was  postmaster  and  delivered 
our  letters  to  our  rooms.  Our  literary  halls 
were  in  the  garrets — the  Calliopean  in  the 
west  end  and  the  Hermesian  in  the  east.  We 
paid  six  dollars  per  month  for  rooms,  board, 
and  fuel,  furnished  ( ?)  our  own  rooms,  made 
up  ( ?)  our  beds,  cut  the  wood  and  made  our 
fires,  and  carried  water  from  the  spring.  Roll 
call  and  prayers  came  morning  and  evening — 
morning  prayers  at  5:30  (which  was  before 
daylight  in  the  winter)  and  no  fire  in  the 
chapel.  I  jumped  out  of  bed  many  times, 
hurriedly  dressed  ( ?),  ran  into  the  chapel  to 
answer  "Present"  and  shiver  while  the  Pro- 
fessor read — by  the  light  of  a  tallow  candle 
which  he  brought  in  with  him — a  few  lines 
from  the  morning  lesson  and  repeated  the 
Lord's  Prayer,  the  snow  a  foot  deep  and  the 
north  wind  howling  through  the  hills  and 
whistling  at  the  keyhole.  Dr.  Collins  held 
evening  prayer,  and  Drs.  Wiley  and  Longley 
morning  prayers.  From  morning  prayers  we 
went  immediately  to  recitation.      There  were 


83 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

two  recitations  before  breakfast,  at  six  and  six- 
thirty,  of  thirty  minutes  each.  That  is  the 
way  Emory  and  Henry  professors  and  pupils 
began  the  day  sixty  years  ago,  and  we  kept 
it  up  at  about  that  rate  till  nine  at  night. 
Schoolmen  and  students  of  to-day  would 
perhaps  rebel  against  such  a  schedule  of 
work — that  it  would  grind  the  life  out  of 
teachers  and  pupils.  Well,  it  did  grind, 
but  it  ground  out  men  all  the  same. 

Let  me  think  a  moment  and  name  a  few  of 
my  school  fellows  who  were  fitted  for  noble 
service  among  men  and  have  attained  to  great 
honor  and  usefulness  in  their  generation: 
Dr.  James  S.  Kennedy,  of  the  Holston  Con- 
ference, a  prince  in  Israel,  every  inch  a  Chris- 
tian gentleman  and  scholar,  wise  in  counsel 
and  safe  in  action,  always  loyal  to  God  and 
truth;  Dr.  W.  M.  Leftwich  ("Little  Left- 
wich"),  who  for  many  years  held  posts  of  honor 
among  his  brethren  in  the  Tennessee  Con- 
ference and  elsewhere;  Gen.  J.  E.  B.  Stuart, 
glorious  "Jeb,"  that  flower  of  cavaliers  to 
whose  memory  his  fellow  citizens  are  to- 
day building  a  monument  in  the  capital  of 
his  native  state;  William  E.  Peters,  LL.D.,  a 
gallant  colonel  in  the  Confederate  army,  and 

84 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


afterwards  Professor  of  Latin  in  the  great 
University  of  Virginia  till  his  death  ;  Hon. 
H.  D.  Clayton,  general  in  the  army  of  the 
Confederacy,  and  afterwards  Governor  of 
Alabama  and  head  of  the  Alabama  University; 
James  L.  Jones,  LL.D.,  President  of  Columbia 
College,  S.  C;  Hon.  J.  J.  Yeates,  Congress- 
man from  North  Carolina;  Judge  Monroe, 
Supreme  Judge  of  the  State  of  South  Carolina; 
and  others. 

Among  the  living  of  my  school  fellows  who 
have  wrought  well  and  are  still  bringing  forth 
fruit  in  old  age,  I  mention  two  who  for  fifty 
and  more  years  have  been  acknowledged 
leaders  in  our  Holston  Conference — one  a  little 
eccentric,  the  other  a  bit  positive;  both  great 
and  good  men,  worthily  wearing  the  well- 
earned  honors  which  the  ministry  and  laity  of 
the  church  and  their  fellow-citizens  at  large 
are  gladly  awarding  them.  Of  these  dear 
men  I  have  more  to  say  later,  but  for  the 
present  will  leave  the  reader  to  guess  at  their 
names.  J.  Preston  White,  my  classmate,  a 
judge  of  the  Supreme  Court  of  the  State  of  Tex- 
as, and  Hon.  John  Goode,  of  Virginia,  states- 
man, soldier,  and  author — a  man  who  has  served 
his  State  and  nation  in  public  office  for  more 


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Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

than  half  a  century  with  such  ability  as  has 
won  for  him  continually  increasing  respect 
and  admiration — were  also  in  this  list.  Others 
no  doubt,  belong  to  the  list  whose  names  do 
not  occur  to  me  at  this  moment.  Let  it  be 
remembered  that  this  list  is  taken  from  the 
students  who  were  in  Emory  and  Henry 
College  from  1847  to  1850,  and  does  not  in- 
clude the  many  who  were  there  in  other  years. 
The  college  plant,  all  told,  was  not  worth 
fifty  thousand  dollars,  perhaps,  at  that  time. 
The  above  facts  furnish  food  for  thought  in 
these  days  when  the  hearts  of  our  people  are 
turned  to  the  subject  of  education.  We  are 
told  that  it  takes  millions  of  dollars  for  the 
financial  basis  of  a  first-class  college.  That  is 
true  when  applied  to  the  university,  where 
specialists  are  educated  and  a  large  numoer 
of  schools  must  be  conducted.  But,  thank 
God !  it  is  not  true  when  applied  to  the  schools 
most  needed  for  the  education  of  the  people. 
My  observation  is  that  largely  endowed  schools 
with  splendid  buildings  and  professors  on  fat 
salaries,  are  not  turning  out  a  proportionately 
large  number  of  men  who  are  blessing  their 
generation.  Such  schools  usually  grow  to  be 
costly  schools  very  soon,  where  only  the  rich 

86 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


can  pay  the  bills,  and  so  they  fail  to  get  the 
best  material  out  of  which  to  make  men. 
The  boys,  whom  necessity  has  taught  to  work 
and  economize,  to  be  content  with  few  luxuries 
and  a  little  self-indulgence,  with  sound  minds 
in  healthy  bodies,  are  the  boys  who  make  men. 
Emory  and  Henry,  with  an  inferior  outfit  in 
buildings,  a  small  faculty  of  industrious, 
Christian  scholars  who  gave  their  personal 
attention  to  the  minds,  manners,  and  morals 
of  the  hundred  and  thirty  or  forty  country  boys 
present,  gave  to  the  world  such  men  as  are 
mentioned  above,  at  a  cost  to  pupil  of  about 
one  hundred  dollars  per  year,  or  a  little  more. 
Now  that  we  have  the  subject  before  us, 
let  us  mention  another  college  here  in  our 
hills — Hiwassee.  Here  Dr.  John  H.  Brunner, 
now  the  senior  college  man  among  us,  with  a 
few  coworkers,  for  the  forty  years  last  past 
has  educated  the  poor  boys  of  the  country. 
As  an  outfit  they  had  a  mere  crow's  nest, 
but  they  hatched  out  eagles.  They  had  a 
gimlet,  but  they  bored  auger  holes  with  it. 
They  had  the  material  out  of  which  to  make 
men — boys  who  had  not  been  spoiled  by 
indulgence  in  their  childhood.  Bent  twigs 
produce  crooked  trees. 


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Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

Now,  Mr.  Editor,  if  you  and  the  reader  will 
pardon  me  for  this  digression,  I  will  hereafter 
write  recollections  and  let  others  make  infer- 
ences and  comments.  But  I  wanted  to  go  on 
record  as  favoring  a  multiplication  of  such 
schools  as  Emory  and  Henry  and  Hiwassee 
were  fifty  years  ago.  I  am  not  to  be  counted 
as  opposing  well-endowed  universities,  and  a 
few  first-class  colleges  as  they  are  now  defined, 
but  I  want  to  see  the  country  sowed  down  in 
such  schools  as  are  mentioned  above.    Amen. 

My  school  days  ended,  I  began  to  look  to 
my  life  work.  Thank  God,  I  did  not  have 
the  trouble  of  determining  what  that  work 
should  be.  That  had  been  settled  for  me  and 
by  me  while  I  was  yet  a  little  boy.  When  I 
was  converted  in  my  twelfth  year,  if  indeed 
not  before,  I  felt  that  I  must  and  would  be  a 
preacher  some  day.  I  read  my  Bible,  went  to 
prayer  meeting  and  to  Sunday-school,  and 
prayed  in  the  haymow  when  I  went  to  feed 
my  colt,  and  finally  went  to  college  with  that 
fact  ever  present.  I  am  not  conscious  of  ever 
having  been  tempted  to  give  it  up,  thank  God! 
While  in  college  we  enjoyed  several  gracious 
revivals,  in  which  I  gladly  took  part.  One  I 
will  tell  you  of.     It  was  brought  about  in  this 

88 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


way:  Four  of  we  boys  seemed  to  be  moved 
simultaneously  to  go  to  the  woods  and  pray 
for  a  larger  measure  of  faith  and  deeper  con- 
secration of  life.  After  a  little  talk  together, 
we  agreed  to  slip  off  to  the  forest  next  evening 
when  school  closed — Richard  Childers,  James 
S.  Kennedy,  James  Bailey,  and  I.  We  walked 
down  by  Dr.  Collin's  and  out  toward  the  old 
stage  road.  It  was  all  woods  then  from  the  col- 
lege southeast  for  a  mile.  Soon  we  left  the  road 
and  struck  into  a  hollow  where  we  thought 
no  one  would  see  or  hear  us.  There  we  found 
the  fallen  trunk  of  a  forked  tree,  and  sat  down 
on  its  limbs,  facing  each  other  two  and  two. 
Here  we  sang  several  songs  and  prayed — 
all  prayed  with  snatches  of  songs  between 
prayers — sang  softly,  fearing  some  one  might 
hear  us.  The  Father  of  the  woods  did 
hear  us  and  gave  delightful  evidence  of  his 
presence  as  we  waited  for  Him  in  that  great 
forest  temple.  We  got  back  to  college  just 
at  supper  time.  Some  of  our  special  friends 
looked  at  us  with  a  sort  of  inquiring  gaze, 
as  much  as  to  say,  "Where  have  you  been  ?" 
We  told  a  few  of  the  more  religious  boys. 
So  it  got  noised  abroad.  Next  evening, 
when  we  started,   there   came   a  dozen  and 


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Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

more  following  after  us.  We  were  glad 
and  felt  less  afraid  of  being  heard,  so  we 
did  not  go  more  than  half  as  far  till  we  found 
a  good  place  to  pray.  The  other  boys  came 
up  close  about  us  and  sat  at  the  roots  of  the 
trees  and  joined  in  the  singing  and  prayers. 
We  sang  louder  that  evening.  The  supper 
horn  called  us  before  we  got  back.  The  next 
evening  we  began  to  sing  by  the  time  we  struck 
the  woods,  and  scores  of  boys  were  with  us. 
After  a  few  songs  and  prayers,  it  was  evident 
that  a  great  solemnity  was  resting  on  many 
hearts.  Kennedy,  I  think  it  was,  made  a  short 
talk  and  invited  any  who  desired  to  be  saved 
and  wished  the  counsel  and  prayers  of  their 
fellow-students  to  come  and  kneel  down  about 
a  big  stump  in  our  midst.  Ten  or  a  dozen 
came,  weeping,  and  fell  down  on  the  leaves. 
Now  all  hands  had  work,  instructing,  en- 
couraging, and  praying.  Two  or  three  were 
converted,  and  we  made  the  woods  ring  with 
our  praises. 

We  went  to  supper  two  and  two  with  locked 
arms.  As  we  passed  by  the  gate  at  Dr.  Collin's, 
I  ran  in  and  reported,  and  asked  him  if  we 
might  not  have  a  service  in  Dr.  Wiley's  recita- 
tion room  that  night  (that  was  the  largest  room 


90 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


except  the  chapel).  He  was  delighted  and 
said  that  he  would  come  and  worship  with  us. 
The  announcement  was  made  at  the  supper 
table.  We  arranged  the  room  and  carried  our 
tallow  candles  to  light  it.  Soon  we  were  sing- 
ing at  the  top  of  our  voices.  The  Doctor 
joined  us — not  in  the  songs,  for  he  could  not 
sing  a  bit,  but  with  much  emotion  and  great 
earnestness  he  preached  and  called  for  peni- 
tents. What  an  hour  that  was!  As  the  boys 
came  he  stood,  his  handsome  face  all  aglow, 
while  he  invited  the  "young  gentlemen"  (that 
is  what  he  always  called  us)  to  come  to  Jesus. 
The  appointment  was  made  for  the  next  night 
for  the  chapel.  The  meeting  had  right  of  way 
now,  and  for  many  nights  we  rallied,  and  many 
boys  were  converted,  who  made  leaders  in 
Israel's  host  for  many  years  to  come.  Some 
of  the  neighbors  came  in,  and  occasionally  a 
motherly  hand  was  laid  on  a  boy's  head  whose 
mother  was  far  away.  It  made  me  think  and 
sigh  for  home.  Thank  God  for  Christian 
colleges! 


91 


XI 


WHEN  AND  WHERE  LICENSED 


HEN'my  college  work  was  done, 
I  knew  what  came  next.  Ipiad 
not  asked  for  a  license  to  preach. 
Starting  home  I  j;  stopped  at 
Abingdon  to  visit  my  sister, 
Hazy— Mrs.*  J.*1  H.  Cardwell.  |W.i  G.  E. 
Cunnyngham|  was  f  preacher \  in  charge  and 
T.  K.  Catlett  presiding  elder,  jj  It  was  quar- 
terly! meeting.  f;|  Cunny ngham  knewj  JI £ ex- 
pected to  be  a  preacher,  so  he  said  to  me: 
"You  have  no  license,  and  you  may  not  find  a 
Quarterly  Conference  when  you  get  home. 
Deposit  your  Church  letter  with  us,  and  I  will 
ask  the  Quarterly  Conference  to  give  you  a 
license  to  preach  and  recommend  you  to  the 
Annual  Conference."  It  was  done — June, 
1850.  I  went  home  a  young  Methodist 
preacher,  but  it  was  all  new.  I  tried  my  first 
service  and  sermon  at  old  Cedar  Springs,  where 
my  father  and  mother  worshipped.  The  sing- 
ing, reading,  and  praying  went  along  well 
enough,  and  the  first  few  sentences  of  the  talk, 


92 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


but  the  rest  was  made  up  of  blundering  and 
crying.  %  I  was  ashamed. 
P  Conference  is  coming,  and  I  must  get  ready. 
Now  I  must  go  back  to  a  little  talk  my  father 
and  I  had  before  he  sent  me  to  college.  We 
were  on  the  way  to  town  (Athens),  I  going  to 
mill,  he  to  get  a  Dutch  mowing  blade — the 
clover  was  about  ready  to  cut.  (This  was 
before  my  brother  was  stricken  with  paralysis.) 
He  said:  "Your  brother,  Timothy,  wants  me 
to  send  you  to  college,  and  I  am  willing  to  do 
so  if  you  want  to  go.  But,"  he  added,  "if  you 
go  to  college,  I  will  pay  your  bills,  and  that  will 
be  all  I  can  do  for  you.  Your  brothers  and 
sisters  will  have  to  have  what  will  be  left." 
I  told  him  I  understood  him  and  would  go  to 
college  with  that  understanding.  So  when 
brother  was  taken  sick  at  Abingdon,  Va., 
ten  miles  only  from  college,  my  parents  fitted 
me  up  to  go  first  to  wait  on  him,  as  said 
above,  and  then  go  on  to  school. 

Now  my  college  days  were  over  and  my  bills 
paid,  and  both  my  father  and  I  remembered 
the  understanding  we  had  before  I  started  for 
college,  though  neither  of  us  had  mentioned  it 
since.  He  called  it  up  one  day,  and  said: 
"As  you  have  decided  to  be  a  preacher,  I  must 


93 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

fit  you  out  with  a  horse,  etc."  Then  he  added: 
"Go  to  the  barn  and  take  your  choice  of  all 
the  horses  there."  This  I  did,  selecting  a  fine 
chestnut-sorrel  mare,  Fannie,  four  years  old. 
He  furnished  me  a  good  saddle,  bridle, 
blanket,  and  saddlebags,  and  mother  added 
a  fine  solid  blue  blanket,  thick  as  felt.  In  the 
middle  of  it  she  made  a  slit  large  enough  for  my 
head  to  go  through,  and  bound  the  slit  with 
ribbon.  This  was  to  go  on  my  saddle  in  dry 
and  warm  weather  and  over  my  shoulders  in 
wet  and  cold  weather — my  head  through  the 
hole  in  the  middle.  I  had  no  overcoat.  This 
blanket  I  kept  and  took  into  the  army  with  me 
in  1 86 1.  While  we  were  encamped  at  Mill 
Springs,  in  Kentucky,  I  left  it  outside  the  door 
one  evening  and  some  soldier  appropriated  it. 
The  snow  was  three  or  four  inches  deep,  and  I 
did  not  blame  him  much,  though  I  sorely 
missed  my  old  stand-by — mother's  good 
blanket.     I  never  saw  a  better. 

So  equipped,  I  was  ready  to  start  off  for 
Conference,  save  that  I  did  not  have  a  cent  of 
money.  The  day  before  I  was  to  start,  my 
father  asked:  "Have  you  any  money  to  meet 
expenses  ?"  He  knew  that  I  had  none.  He 
was  a  born  quiz,  and,  smiling,  he  handed  me 


fej 


94 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


twelve  dollars.  He  supposed  that  I  would 
travel  as  preachers  traveled  in  those  days — 
without  being  charged,  and  that  twelve  dollars 
would  last  a  good  while  for  "pin  money."  And 
so  it  would;  but  I  traveled  alone  and  neither 
looked  nor  felt  like  a  preacher.  I  asked  for 
my  bill  each  morning,  and  paid  it — usually 
one  dollar  for  myself  and  horse.  Confer- 
ence met  that  year  (1850)  in  Abingdon, 
and  it  required  six  days  to  make  the  trip. 
That  took  six  of  my  dollars  and  left  me  six. 
At  the  missionary  collection  during  Conference 
James  Atkins,  Sr.  (father  of  Dr.  James  Atkins, 
now  bishop),  said:  "I  will  be  one  of  twenty 
to  give  five  dollars."  There  were  nineteen 
responses,  and  then  it  "hung  fire."  Finally 
I  said,  "I'll  take  the  other  five,"  and  handed 
him  the  money.  That  left  me  with  one 
dollar. 

Well,  I  was  admitted  into  the  Conference 
on  trial,  with  nine  others — among  them  R.  N. 
Price,  who  alone  survives  to  this  day.  He  and 
I  were  Emory  students  together,  and  side  by 
side  we  have  stood  for  these  fifty-five  years 
members  of  the  Holston  Conference,  M.  E. 
Church,  South.  May  my  God  keep  his  hand 
on  this  dear  man  and  bring  him  and  his  safely 


95 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

home  from  the  field  when  the  sun  goes  down! 
Was  I  concerned  about  my  appointment  ? 
No.  I  knew  nothing  of  the  fields  of  work  and 
never  once  thought  where  I  might  be  sent. 
"Where  ignorance  is  bliss,  'tis  folly  to  be 
wise."  Bishop  Capers  read  me  out  to  Burns- 
ville,  N.  C.  (Holston  then  included  Western 
North  Carolina.)  William  Hicks  was  pre- 
siding elder;  and,  to  my  delight,  James  A. 
Reagan  and  R.  N.  Price  were  appointed  to  the 
adjoining  work — Ream's  Creek  Circuit — and 
George  Alexander  to  Asheville  Station.  We 
four  (Alexander,  Reagan,  Price,  and  I)  left 
Abingdon  Wednesday,  took  dinner  at  Wor- 
ley's  one  mile  east  of  Bristol,  and  then  went 
to  Blountville  and  spent  the  night  with  J.  J. 
James.  I  tried  to  preach  that  night.  Next 
day  we  went  to  Jonesboro.  Reagan  and 
Price  stopped  with  Dr.  Cossen;  and  Alexander 
and  I  with  J.  H.  Dosser.  That  night  Alexan- 
der told  me  that  he  and  Miss  Lizzie  Smith 
(daughter  of  Pleasant  Smith,  near  Emory  and 
Henry  College)  were  going  to  be  married  after 
a  few  months  and  he  wanted  me  to  be  his 
"best  man."  Of  course,  I  agreed  to  do  so. 
Miss  Smith  was  his  second  wife.  Next  day 
we   took  dinner   at   Brother   Wilhoit's,    and 

96 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


went  on  to  Garrett's,  near  Warm  Springs,  N. 
C,  for  the  night.  This  day  we  passed  the 
celebrated  Paint  Rock,  on  the  French  Broad 
River,  and  our  road  and  the  river  ran  side  by 
side.  Leaving  Garrett's  Saturday  morning, 
we  went  up  this  river  road,  one  of  the  most 
picturesque  and  interesting  mountain  roads 
I  ever  saw — every  foot  of  it  bringing  into  view 
a  beautiful  picture  as  we  followed  the  tortuous, 
headlong  little  stream  hunting  its  way  out  of 
the  mountains  into  the  great  Tennessee 
Valley. 

Saturday  night  we  got  to  the  celebrated 
stand,  Alexander's,  ten  miles  this  side  of  Ashe- 
ville.  Here  Brother  Alexander  left  us  and 
went  on  to  town  to  meet  his  first  appointment. 
Reagan  and  Price  were  now  in  their  own  work. 
And  here  we  found  a  charming  Christian 
family — the  Alexanders — mostly  daughters, 
who  were  educated  at  the  celebrated  Mora- 
vian School  at  Salem,  N.  C.  Rev.  J.  S.  Burnett, 
of  Holston,  married  one  of  them,  and  he  and  his 
wife  were  here  at  her  father's.  Judge  John 
Baxter  married  two  of  them — a  first  and 
second  wife.  During  the  lifetime  of  the 
second  wife  he  came  from  North  Carolina  to 
Knoxville,    Tenn.     I   was   on   the   Knoxville 


97 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

Station  at  that  time,  and  she  was  a  member  of 
my  Church.  An  acquaintance  begun  ten 
years  before  was  gladly  renewed  on  my  part, 
and  the  renewal  only  increased  my  admiration 
for  her  superior  Christian  character.  The 
Judge,  a  man  of  great  intellect  and  strength 
of  character,  was  a  doubter  as  to  the  reality 
of  the  Christian  religion — an  honest  doubter,  I 
think.  His  wife  took  sick  and  was  sick  unto 
death.  Wife  and  I  were  with  her  much  of  the 
time,  and  when  the  end  came  it  was  such  a 
deathbed  scene  as  shook  the  Judge,  both 
mind  and  body.  She  talked  as  quietly  of 
dying  and  going  home  as  if  she  were  going  to 
make  a  visit  to  her  father's  house  in  the  hills  of 
old  Buncombe,  the  home  of  her  childhood. 
The  Judge  would  stand  at  her  head  and  listen 
as  one  amazed,  and  then  walk  the  floor — 
wrestling  not  only  with  a  great  sorrow,  but 
struggling  with  a  fact  for  which  he  could  not 
account  without  admitting  the  deepest  truths 
of  religion.  We  sang  softly  "Jesus,  Lover  of 
My  Soul."  She  joined  us  in  the  song  and 
smiled  while  she  sang.  I  asked:  "Are  you 
afraid  to  die?"  She  answered  with  a  clear, 
calm  voice:  "No  sir;  I  am  not  afraid  of  any- 
thing."    Finally  she  fell  on  sleep.     A  more 

98 


Seventy  Years  in  T)ixie 


triumphant  death  I  never  witnessed.  The 
Judge  came  and  looked  for  a  moment  on  her 
sweet,  quiet  face,  and  then  walked  the  room 
again.  We  buried  her  next  day,  and  the  day 
following  I  met  the  Judge  at  his  home.  He 
took  me  by  the  hand,  and  with  the  lines  of  his 
face  drawn  tight  as  cords,  he  said :  "There  is 
something  in  the  triumphant  death  of  my  wife 
inexplicable  on  any  other  ground  than  that 
religion  is  true.,,  "Why,"  he  added,  "she 
was  always  timid  as  a  frightened  bird;  but 
when  the  grim  monster  came,  she  knew  no 
fear."  Thank  God  for  consistent  Christian 
living  and  triumphant  Christian  dying! 


99 


XII 
A  MEMORABLE  DAY 

UNDAY  morning  we  all  left  the 
river  and  went  over  to  Ream's 
Creek  (now  Weaverville).  Here 
was  the  district  parsonage,  and 
Brother  Hicks  was  at  home, 
as  he  had  come  through  the  near  way. 
Brother  Reagan  preached,  and  I  concluded 
for  him.  Bishop  Janes  once  held  our  Con- 
ference at  this  place.  This  was  the  home  of 
the  large  and  influential  family  of  Weavers; 
hence  the  name,  Weaverville.  The  Western 
North  Carolina  Conference  now  has  a  school 
there,  Weaverville  College.  I  was  now  some 
twenty-five  or  thirty  miles  southeast  of  my 
work,  having  gone  around  and  passed  it. 
I  might  have  reached  it  directly  from  Jones- 
boro  in  half  the  distance  by  going  a  bridle 
pathway  through  the  mountains.  Monday 
morning  I  told  the  brethren  good-bye  and 
started  alone  for  Burnsville,  and  this  Monday 
was  one  of  the  most  memorable  days  of  my 
life.     This  is  true  to  this  day — fifty-five  years 


ioo 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


later.  Up  to  this  point,  since  leaving  Con- 
ference, I  had  most  congenial  companions, 
and  two  of  them  knew  the  road  and  the  people 
on  the  way.  So  I  was  easy  as  to  the  where 
and  when  and  how  of  our  traveling.  But  now 
I  was  to  go  alone.  A  strange  feeling  crept 
upon  me  as  I  began  to  fully  take  in  the 
situation.  But  I  was  in  the  path  of  duty, 
as  I  honestly  believed.  The  validity  of  my 
call  to  the  ministry  was  never  questioned, 
and  it  had  never  occurred  to  me  that  I  could 
answer  that  call  in  any  way  but  by  being  a 
traveling  preacher.  I  found  solid  comfort 
here,  and  so  I  pulled  up  Fannie's  bridle  a 
little  and  said:  "All  right,  gal,  move  on; 
this  is  the  way  for  us."  I  am  sorry  for  the 
Methodist  preacher  who  never  talked  to  his 
horse,  or  shared  his  apple  or  biscuit  with  him 
at  lunch  time. 

I  was  late  starting  that  morning;  somehow 
did  not  want  to  say  good-bye,  and  so  had  not 
gone  more  than  ten  miles  before  I  had  an  in- 
ward admonition  that  it  was  nearing  dinner 
time;  and  with  that  I  began  to  consider  my 
chances  for  something  to  eat  for  myself  and 
Fannie.  Then  for  the  first  time  I  thought  of 
my  money;  but  without  feeling  in  my  pocket 


101 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

for  it,  I  began  to  count  back  where  I  had 
spent  a  fourpence  here  and  another  there. 
It  was  in  the  days  of  slavery,  and  I  made  it  a 
rule  to  give  something  to  the  boy  who  cared  for 
my  horse  and  blacked  my  boots.  We  all  wore 
boots  in  those  days.  Then  we  had  to  pay  at 
two  or  three  tollgates  along  the  river.  When  I 
counted  it  up  as  well  as  I  could,  I  concluded 
that  I  had  spent  seventy-five  cents  of  the 
dollar  I  had  left  at  Conference,  and  so  thought 
there  was  still  twenty-five  cents  in  my  pocket. 
But  when  the  pocket  was  searched,  I  found 
only  an  old  Spanish  piece,  worn  perfectly 
smooth  and  very  thin,  worth  twenty  cents. 
This  was  my  stock  in  trade  among  strangers, 
hungry,  and  two  hundred  miles  from  mother. 
Maybe  a  cloud  passed  over  the  sun  just  then, 
for  things  looked  a  little  blue,  I  thought. 
However,  Fannie  and  I  were  headed  for  the 
Burnsville  Circuit,  and,  looking  ahead,  I  saw 
a  good-looking  white  house,  apparently  right 
in  the  road.  On  approaching  it  I  found  the 
road  turned  square  to  the  right  immediately  in 
front  of  the  house.  I  made  the  turn,  and  had 
gone  a  few  yards  past  the  gate  when  I  heard  a 
lady's  voice  calling:  "Mr.  Sullins."  I  heard 
only  that,  but  that  was  enough.     I  stopped, 


102 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


turned  back,  and  made  my  best  bow  to  a  lady 
standing  in  the  door.  How  this  came  about, 
I  could  not  guess.  In  a  moment  she  said: 
"Stop  and  take  dinner  with  us."  Here  was  a 
delightful  surprise.  No  tired  plowboy  ever 
heard  the  dinner  horn  in  the  long  days  in  June 
with  more  pleasure  than  that  invitation  gave 
me.  She  called  a  servant  from  the  wood 
yard  and  said :  "Take  care  of  the  gentleman's 
horse."  As  I  approached  she  extended  her 
hand,  and  explained  thus:  "I  was  at  Ream's 
Creek  yesterday.  You  concluded  the  services, 
and  I  learned  your  name  and  that  you  go  to 
the  Burnsville  Circuit  this  year.  We  are 
Methodists,  and  are  always  glad  to  have  the 
preachers  stop  with  us.  My  name  is  Black- 
stock."  This  made  all  plain.  I  had  an  ex- 
cellent dinner,  and  made  the  acquaintance  of 
a  family  whose  friendship  I  appreciated. 
When  I  was  ready  to  leave,  the  family  came 
together  for  prayers.  That  was  the  custom  in 
those  days.  My  friend,  Miss  Blackstock, 
said  as  I  was  starting:  "There  is  no  house  on 
the  road  for  many  miles  through  the  mountain 
at  which  you  can  get  lodging.  You  will  have 
to  turn  off  the  road  some  ten  miles  from  here 
and  stay  with  Mr.  Carter."     She  then  said 


103 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

casually:  "He's  a  Baptist,  and  may  charge 
you  for  staying  all  night."  That  last  remark 
impressed  me  seriously,  and  the  reader  can  tell 
why. 

But  Fannie  and  I  were  headed  for  the 
Burnsville  Circuit,  and  this  was  the  road.  So 
after  many  thanks  and  "good-bye,"  I  started, 
grateful  for  such  good  providence  as  gave  me 
my  dinner.  The  road  ran  along  the  foothills 
of  the  big  mountains  that  towered  high  above 
me.  The  sand  was  deep,  with  loose  rocks 
among  it.  Soon  I  began  to  think  thoughts. 
Fannie  clipped  off  the  miles  well.  The 
shadows  of  the  tall  pines  began  to  stretch  far 
along  the  road.  I  must  be  near  the  bridle 
way  that  turns  off  to  Carter's.  And  what  will 
you  do  if  when  you  ask  for  your  bill  in  the 
morning  the  old  gentleman  should  say,  "One 
dollar  ?"  Ah,  there  was  the  trouble.  I  do  not 
think  I  was  foolishly  sensitive,  but  the  thought 
of  having  to  tell  my  Baptist  host  that  I  was  a 
Methodist  preacher  and  had  but  twenty  cents 
in  the  world  made  the  pine  shadows  look 
longer  still.  True,  I  could  tell  him,  "My 
circuit  comes  near  you,  and  I  will  surely  pay 
you  the  other  eighty  cents  soon,"  and  maybe 
he  would  believe  me.     Still  I  did  not  feel  good 


104 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


over  it.  In  the  mountains,  among  strangers, 
with  only  twenty  cents  in  my  pocket,  night 
coming  on,  and  mother  two  hundred  miles 
away!  Well,  if  I  cried  a  little  there  was  no  one 
to  see  me.  Just  then  I  looked  up,  and  coming 
around  a  turn  in  the  road  I  saw  a  large,  well- 
dressed  man  on  a  fine  pacing  bay  horse,  some 
two  hundred  yards  before  me.  This  broke 
the  train  of  thought.  As  the  gentleman  ap- 
proached I  lifted  my  eyes  and  bowed,  and,  to 
my  surprise,  he  reined  his  horse  up  and  stopped 
suddenly.  Then  turning,  he  said:  "Excuse 
me,  sir,  but  are  you  not  the  preacher  going  to 
Burnsville  Circuit?"  I  answered:  "I  am." 
"Well,"  he  said,  "I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Brother 
Sullins.  My  name  is  McElroy.  You  will  see 
on  the  plan  of  your  work  that  I  am  the 
secretary  of  the  board  of  stewards."  Without 
giving  me  time  to  gather  my  thoughts  together 
and  tell  him  how  glad  I  was  to  see  him,  he 
talked  right  on,  saying:  "I  am  glad  to  see 
you.  I  live  in  Burnsville;  am  on  my  way  to 
Charleston,  S.  C,  to  lay  in  my  winter  stock  of 
goods.  Go  right  to  my  house  and  feel  at 
home.  I  must  hurry  on,  for  I  have  to  go  to 
Blackstock's  to  stay  all  night."  And  he 
moved  forward  a  step,  perhaps,  when  suddenly 


105 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

the  turned  back  and  said:  "Wait.  Your 
first  quarterly  meeting  will  be  held  on  Jack's 
Creek  before  I  get  back.  Here,  take  this  five 
dollar  bill  and  report  it  for  me  to  the  Quarterly 
Conference. "  Then,  starting  again,  he  looked 
back  and  said :  "A  half  mile  up  there  you  will 
find  a  path  to  the  right,  which  leads  out  to  old 
Mr.  Carter's,  where  you  can  spend  the  night." 
There  now!  Surely  a  cloud  had  gone  off  the 
sun,  it  was  so  light  on  the  hills.  It  was  day- 
break everywhere,  all  the  birds  were  singing 
at  once. 

Two  minutes  later  you  might  have  heard  a 
young  preacher  whistling  along  up  the  road, 
keeping  time  as  he  patted  Fannie's  neck,  or 
now  and  then  chuckling  a  little  to  himself 
as  he  anticipated  saying  to  Mr.  Carter  next 
morning,  if  he  charged  for  the  night's  lodg- 
ing: "I  will  have  to  trouble  you  to  break  this 
five,  as  I  have  not  enough  loose  change  by  me 
to  pay  my  bill." 

But  here  is  the  little  byway,  and  soon  I  am 
at  Carter's,  Fannie  gone  to  the  barn,  and  I 
seated  on  the  porch  with  a  fine  basket  of 
apples  by  my  side.  The  sun  is  just  going 
down,  and  a  bracing  breeze  comes  down  from 
the  Big  Black  Mountain,  promising  frost  by 

1 06         l'^ 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


morning.  So  closed  one  of  the  most  memor- 
able days  of  my  life.  Its  lessons  on  faith  in 
Him  who  said  to  me  in  my  childhood,  "Go/' 
have  lingered  with  me  ever  since.  Awful  first 
day !  Blessed  first  day  i  Never  to  be  forgot- 
ten. 


107 


XIII 
INTERESTING  INCIDENTS 

EATED  on  the  porch  of  Mr. 
Carter,  as  the  eventful  first  day 
of  my  ministry  closed,  I  had  a 
favorable  opportunity  for  a  lit- 
tle quiet.  The  evening  breezes 
from  the  Big  Black  came  crisp  and  cold 
out  of  the  deep,  dark  forests  of  balsam, 
which  gave  color  and  name  to  this  great 
monarch  of  the  Alleghanies;  and  as  they 
fanned  my  brow,  I  caught  the  rich  aromatic 
odors  they  had  gathered  in  their  leafy  dells, 
where  they  had  spent  the  day,  and  was  re- 
freshed. The  coming  of  the  lowing  cows 
from  the  field  and  the  milkmaid,  with  pail  in 
hand,  going  out  to  the  pen  where  the  restless 
calves  were  bleating,  recalled  Polly  Shook 
and  the  days  of  childhood.  Such  had  been 
the  pleasing  evidence  of  my  Heavenly  Father's 
timely  care  in  the  experiences  of  the  day  that  I 
was  really  happy.  I  had  learned  as  never  before 
how  to  "commit  my  way  unto  the  Lord  and 
to  trust  also  in  Him."  My  meditations  were 
soon  interrupted.     A  gentleman  rode  up  to  the 


108 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


gate,  hitched  his  horse,  and  came  directly  to 
the  house.  A  son  of  Mr.  Carter,  I  guessed. 
But  I  was  wrong,  for  as  soon  as  he  came  on  the 
porch  he  looked  straight  at  me  for  a  moment, 
then,  bowing,  said:  "Aren't  you  the  preacher 
going  to  the  Burnsville  Circuit  ?"  I  had  often 
wondered  how  those  "Tar  Heels"  could  tell  a 
preacher  at  a  glance.  I  answered:  "Yes." 
"Well,"  said  he,  "I  thought  so."  Then  he 
added:  "My  name  is  Young.  I  live  with  Mr. 
McElroy,  in  Burnsville.  I  am  a  Methodist 
and  glad  to  see  you."  He  was  a  young  man 
about  my  age,  and  I  was  delighted  to  meet  him. 
We  occupied  the  same  room  that  night,  and  I 
noticed  that  he  bowed  by  his  bed  in  prayer 
before  he  lay  down.  He  was  a  young  man  of 
fine  business  sense,  good  character,  and  fair 
culture.  He  told  me  that  his  business  there 
at  that  time  was  to  buy  cattle  for  the  Southern 
market.  The  neighbors  thereabouts  were 
to  bring  their  marketable  cattle  to  that  place 
in  the  morning.  The  announcement  had 
been  spread  abroad.  So  when  morning  came, 
bringing  a  white  frost,  Mr.  Young  was  up 
early  to  look  after  business,  and  very  soon 
heard  the  big  cow  bells  coming  in  on  the 
different    mountain    roads    and    trails,    ten, 


109 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

fifteen,  or  twenty  in  a  squad,  the  leader  of  each 
herd  usually  wearing  a  large  bell  and  an- 
nouncing his  approach  by  such  bellowings 
as  almost  shook  the  hills.  I  was  up  right 
away,  determined  to  see  what  was  going  on 
and  to  show  the  neighbors  that  I  was  not 
a  "sleepy-head,"  but  a  wide-awake  young 
preacher,  ready  for  anything  honorable,  work 
or  fun. 

Mr.  Young  bought  some  forty  or  fifty  out 
of  the  different  herds,  and  among  them  three 
leaders,  monster  fellows,  whose  furious  bel- 
lowings were  enough  to  satisfy  any  Spaniard 
at  a  bullfight.  The  question  of  who  is 
master  must  be  settled  before  they  are  started 
on  the  road;  otherwise,  they  will  give  trouble. 
So  it  was  agreed  to  turn  them  two  at  a  time 
into  the  little  meadow  nearby.  First,  the 
largest  and  smallest  were  turned  in,  and,  after 
some  pawing  and  bellowing,  they  locked  horns 
— not  figuratively.  But  the  smaller  one  soon 
found  that  he  was  overmatched,  and  gave  it 
up.  Next  the  second  in  size  was  turned  in. 
He  was  but  a  little  less  than  the  largest,  and, 
after  much  bellowing  and  swelling  and  maneu- 
vering for  positions,  they  set  to  with  force 
enough,  it  would  seem,  to  burst  their  skulls. 


no 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


And  now  the  frost  flew  and  the  meadow  sod 
was  torn  up  as  by  a  plow.  Round  and  round 
they  turned,  trying  for  vantage  ground,  until 
finally  the  larger  one  threw  his  horn  under  the 
jaw  or  neck  of  his  antagonist,  and  the  fight  was 
over;  and  nobody  hurt,  no  blood  spilled. 

Thus  began  my  first  day  on  the  Burnsville 
Circuit.  Breakfast  over,  soon  the  cattle  were 
on  their  way  to  Burnsville.  I  must  not  forget 
to  tell  you  that  Mr.  Carter  did  not  charge  me 
for  my  night's  lodging,  but  gave  me  a  hearty 
invitation  to  return  again.  I  joined  Mr. 
Young  and  made  some  reputation  as  a  cattle 
driver,  and  lost  nothing  by  it. 

We  got  to  Burnsville  that  evening.  My 
appointments  began  there  the  next  Sunday. 
I  spent  the  rest  of  the  week  there,  visiting  the 
families  of  my  people  and  getting  acquainted 
with  the  town.  I  found  that  there  were 
twenty-two  preaching  places  on  the  circuit, 
all  to  be  filled  every  four  weeks,  with  an 
average  travel  of  about  ten  miles  per  day. 
I  had  no  books  but  my  Bible,  hymn  book, 
Discipline,  and  Watson's  Dictionary.  There 
were  but  few  books  in  the  homes  I  visited. 
Occasionally  I  would  borrow  a  good  book  from 
a  good  brother  and  read  it  on  horseback  and 


in 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

return  it  on  my  next  round.  I  was  strong  and 
in  fine  health;  had  been  brought  up  on  a  farm, 
and  knew  how  to  mix  with  people.  I  could 
sing,  and  would  say  to  the  young  people: 
"Next  round  I  will  stop  with  So-and-So. 
Bring  all  your  notebooks,  and  let  us  have  a 
'singing.'  '  Thus  I  made  their  acquaintance 
and  got  close  to  them. 

The  pay  of  a  preacher  was  one  hundred 
dollars  per  year.  This  they  paid  in  full. 
We  reported  one  hundred  conversions  and 
additions  that  year.  I  left  the  work  with 
about  forty  dollars  in  my  pocket.  They  paid 
but  little,  but  never  allowed  the  preacher  to 
pay  for  anything  he  needed.  A  suit  or  two 
of  clothes,  boots,  hats,  etc.,  were  presents  com- 
mon in  those  days.  I  visited  all  I  could; 
organized  Sunday-schools  in  the  spring; 
had  two  camp  meetings  on  the  work;  was 
called  to  but  one  funeral  during  the  year. 

A  thousand  things  connected  with  this  first 
year  of  my  ministry  I  must  leave  unwritten 
here.  The  country  was  wild  and  mountain- 
ous. The  Big  Black,  the  Roane,  the  Bald, 
the  Yellow  and  the  Lynnville  Mountains 
were  all  in  the  circuit,  the  people  simple  and 
hospitable  in  their  manners. 


112 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


Conference  met  that  fall  (1851)  at  my  old 
home  Athens,  Tenn.  Thus  an  opportunity 
was  afforded  me  of  meeting  father  and 
mother  and  other  home  folks.  What  a  delight! 
Bishop  Andrew  was  in  the  chair,  and  D.  R. 
McAnally  was  secretary.  I  was  read  out  to 
Asheville  Station,  N.  C.  This  made  me 
tremble,  and  I  went  with  much  humility  to 
undertake  the  unequal  task.  On  my  way 
I  spent  a  night  with  John  Harle,  near  the 
mouth  of  "Chucky,"  one  of  the  best  men  I 
ever  knew.  He  went  with  me  next  morning 
some  two  or  three  miles  to  show  me  how  to  ford 
"Chucky  River"  safely  at  its  mouth.  He 
stood  on  the  bank  and  directed,  "Up  a  little 
now;"  and  then,  "To  the  right  carefully;" 
now,  "Down  to  the  going  out  place."  Safely 
over,  I  waved  him  a  good-bye  and  moved  on. 

Asheville  was  but  a  flourishing  village  then 
(1851).  I  found  a  membership  of  about  three 
hundred  in  the  town,  and  among  them  the 
celebrated  Vance  family,  Robert  Vance,  after- 
wards a  general  in  the  Confederate  army  and 
a  member  of  Congress,  was  Sunday-school 
superintendent  and  class  leader.  His  wife  was 
Mary  McElroy,  of  Burnsville.  I  had  the 
pleasure   of  being  at   their  wedding  a  year 


113 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

before,  while  I  was  on  the  Burnsville  circuit. 
His  mother,  the  widow  of  David  Vance, 
resided  here;  and  his  brother,  Zebulon,  then 
just  grown  up  to  manhood,  afterwards  the 
world-renowned  "Zeb  Vance,  of  North  Caro- 
lina/' Congressman,  General,  Governor,  Sen- 
ator, etc.  His  sister,  Ann  (now  the  beloved 
wife  of  Dr.  R.  N.  Price),  was  then  the  bright, 
attractive  young  leader  of  the  social  and 
religious  circles  of  the  village.  Here,  with 
their  charming  families,  were  Messrs.  Nick 
and  John  Woodfin,  the  head  of  a  law  firm; 
and  here  "Old  Uncle  John  Regnold,,,  a  super- 
annuated member  of  the  Holston  Conference, 
with  his  dear  old  motherly  wife  and  some 
hearty  young  sons.  I  boarded  with  them  that 
year  in  the  Carolina  House.  Here,  too,  was  the 
Asheville  Female  College,  then  a  Conference 
school,  Rev.  E.  Rowley,  president.  The 
boarding  pupils  and  faculty  filled  one-fourth 
of  the  church  on  Sunday  mornings,  and  often 
embarrassed  me  by  their  presence.  The 
Robertses,  Smiths,  Beards,  Rankins,  Edneys, 
etc.,  were  there. 

The  year  was  in  many  respects  a  pleasant 
and  successful  one.  We  had  a  gracious 
revival   during  the    year.      Those   were   the 


114 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


days  of  camp  meetings  everywhere.  I  at- 
tended three.  One  was  out  in  Haywood 
County,  I  think — at  least  out  near  the  Indian 
Reservation,  at  Shook's  Camp  Ground.  Here 
on  Monday  night  occurred  a  singular  incident. 
Brother  Hicks,  presiding  elder,  had  preached 
a  strong  sermon,  and  many  penitents  came  to 
the  front  for  prayer.  After  a  lengthy  altar 
service,  such  of  the  congregation  as  desired  to 
do  so  were  permitted  to  retire.  I  went  to  the 
preacher's  tent  and  to  bed.  But  sleep  did  not 
come — no  pain,  no  trouble  of  any  kind.  All 
was  quiet,  save  two  or  three  voices  out  under 
the  shed — sometimes  a  stanza  of  some  old  song 
in  a  low  tone,  then  again  a  prayer,  then  words 
of  exhortation.  One  of  the  voices  was  evi- 
dently that  of  a  woman.  I  listened,  trying 
to  sleep,  but  sleep  had  fled.  I  conceived  the 
little  group  lingering  there  at  the  altar  to  be  a 
wife  who  had  prayed  long  for  a  wicked  hus- 
band, and,  finding  that  husband  penitent, 
she  had  enlisted  the  sympathy  and  help  of  a 
local  preacher  or  class  leader  to  remain  with 
her  to  pray  and  encourage  the  poor  sinner. 
This  exercise  had  lasted,  it  seemed  to  me, 
till  midnight.  Somehow  I  felt  like  I  ought  to 
go  out  there;  and,  getting  up,  I  dressed  and 


115 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

went  out,  I  knew  not  why.  There,  near  to 
the  stand,  under  the  dim  light  of  a  single  tallow 
candle,  which  was  burning  low  in  the  wooden 
sconce,  I  saw  the  three,  much  as  I  conceived 
of  before  I  came  out.  I  did  not  go  to  them, 
but  took  my  seat  twenty  or  twenty-five  feet 
away.  Why,  I  did  not  know.  Then  there 
came  into  mind  an  old  song  I  used  sometimes 
to  sing.  It  was  a  sort  of  dialogue  between  a 
Christian  and  a  sinner.  Immediately  I  began 
to  sing  it.     It  ran  thus: 

"Come,  think  on  death  and  judgment, 

Your  time  is  almost  spent; 
You've  been  a  wretched  sinner, 

'Tis  time  that  you'd  repent." 

Here  the  sinner  puts  in  some  excuses.  Finally 
the  Christian  ends  his  pleadings  with  this: 

"But  what  if  you  lie  down  to-night, 

Supposing  all  is  well, 
And  should  your  eyes  be  closed  in  death, 

Your  soul  awake  in  hell?" 

Sinner  says: 

"My  case  would  then  be  awful, 

I  now  begin  to  see ; 
I  pray  the  Lord  have  mercy ! 

Have  mercy,  Lord,  on  me!" 

I   sang  these  simple  words,   and,   without 
speaking  to  any  one,  went  back  to  bed  and  to 

116 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


sleep.     Often  I  wondered  at  the  whole  thing, 
but  could  never  understand  it. 

Seven  years  after  this  I  was  stationed  in 
Chattanooga,  E.  F.  Sevier,  presiding  elder. 
In  midsummer  he  was  in  feeble  health.  My 
wife  had  gone  to  her  father's  at  Jonesboro, 
with  our  first  child,  then  about  one  year  old. 
Brother  Sevier  said:  "I  have  three  quarterly 
meetings  which  I  wish  you  would  hold  for  me. 
I  will  fill  your  pulpit  here  while  you  are  gone. 
He  lived  in  Chattanooga  then.  Of  course,  I 
consented.  The  meetings  were  to  be  at 
Ducktown,  Tenn.,  Murphy,  N.  C,  and  Coker's 
Creek,  Tenn.  I  held  the  meeting  at  Duck- 
town,  and  spent  most  of  the  week  there,  inter- 
ested in  the  copper  works.  Saturday  I  went 
to  the  Murphy  meeting.  It  was  on  the  Mur- 
phy Circuit,  but  not  in  the  town  of  Murphy. 
At  the  close  of  the  morning  services  I  assisted 
the  pastor  in  Quarterly  Conference.  When  we 
were  through,  a  brother  came  and  spoke  to 
me,  and  said:  "You  don't  know  me,  but  I 
know  you."  When  I  inquired  where  I  had 
met  him,  he  said:  "Do  you  remember  the 
Monday  night  at  Shook's  Camp  Ground, 
when  you  came  out  of  the  preacher's  tent  about 
midnight  and  sang  a  song  about  death  and 


117 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

judgment  ?"  "Yes,"  I  said,  "and  I've  never 
known  why."  "Well,"  he  replied,  "I  was 
there  and  was  restless  that  night,  had  walked 
about  till  just  before  you  came  out,  and  then 
took  my  seat  against  a  post  at  the  upper  end  of 
the  shed,  in  the  dark,  and  was  listening  to  the 
three  who  lingered  under  the  dim  light  near  the 
pulpit,  when  you  came  out  and  sang  that  song. 
The  last  lines  filled  me  with  trembling,  and  as 
you  went  back  I  resolved  to  be  a  better  man 
from  that  moment.  I  sought  and  found  par- 
don, joined  the  Church.  To-day  I  am  a  local 
preacher  and  on  my  way  to  glory,  thankful 
to  God  for  that  Monday  night  at  Shook's 
Camp  Ground."  "Well,  well,"  I  said,  "here, 
after  seven  years,  I  see  in  part  the  meaning 
of  that  strange  night."  And  so  I  conclude 
that  no  man  knows  just  when  he  is  doing  his 
best  work.  Only  to  follow  the  promptings 
of  the  Holy  Spirit  and  leave  results  to  him 
is  always  safe.  Strange  things  will  often 
occur.     The  explanation  will  come  by  and  by. 


118 


XIV 
CHEROKEE  PREACHERS 


HERE  were  five  or  six  Cherokee 
Indians  at  the  meeting  of  which 
I  wrote  in  the  last  chapter  at 
Shook's  Camp  Ground.  Among 
them  were  two  local  preachers 


of  our  Church,  Old  Charley  and  Black  Fox. 
I  was  very  much  interested  in  the  company, 
and  often  sought  opportunity  to  talk  with 
them.  They  had  an  interpreter  along,  a 
"half-breed. "  Their  grave  and  devout 
manners  in  time  of  worship  were  very  marked. 
Indeed,  they  were  at  all  times  very  serious, 
not  to  say  grum.  They  rarely  ever  smiled, 
and  never  laughed  a  hearty,  open  laugh.  When 
they  talked  among  themselves,  I  noticed  they 
did  not  move  their  lips,  like  other  folks; 
and  on  inquiry  I  found  they  had  but  few,  if  any, 
labial  sounds  in  their  language.  So  I  began  to 
try  all  the  Indian  names  of  rivers,  mountains, 
towns,  etc.,  known  to  me,  and  found  that  I 
could  pronounce  or  sound  them  without  putting 
my  lips  together,  thus:     Chattanooga,  Ocoee, 


119 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

Tennessee,  Coosa,  Unaka,  and  so  on  for  fifty  or 
more  names.  The  accent  was  always  on  the 
last  syllable,  and  was  a  sort  of  grunt.  I 
wondered  if  their  language  had  not  been  con- 
structed, or  grown,  out  of  their  characteristic 
fondness  for  secrecy.  Two  of  them  ten  feet 
away  from  you  might  be  talking,  but  you  could 
not  see  their  mouths  move.  As  Conference 
was  to  be  in  Asheville  that  fall,  I  asked  Old 
Charley  and  Black  Fox  to  come  and  see  their 
"big  brothers. "  They  did.  At  an  evening 
service  for  preaching  I  told  Old  Charley 
that  I  would  call  on  him  to  pray  after  the 
sermon.  He  prayed  in  his  own  language; 
and  while  we  could  not  understand  what  he 
said,  we  felt  sure  that  our  common  Father 
understood  him.  His  voice  was  very  soft, 
and  even  musical  at  the  first,  but  grew  loud 
and  almost  vehement  before  he  closed.  We  all 
said  "Amen,"  and  were  glad  that  our  God 
understood  Cherokee. 

This  Asheville  Conference  was  the  first  I 
had  to  entertain,  and  I  found  plenty  of  work 
locating  and  taking  care  of  the  preachers. 
The  Conference  was  not  so  large  then,  as  there 
were  no  lay  delegates.  Bishop  Capers  came 
on  a   few  days  beforehand,  and   I   had  the 


120 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


pleasure  of  entertaining  him.  This  year  I 
received  deacon's  orders.  The  sessions  were 
held  in  the  college  chapel.  My  appointment 
this  year  was  to  the  Jonesboro  Station.  I 
took  public  conveyance  (had  no  horse),  and 
got  to  Jonesboro  Saturday  evening,  October 
2,  1852.  I  stopped  at  the  hotel.  Next  day 
I  preached  twice,  and  had  the  pleasure  of 
meeting  many  of  my  people.  Here  I  found  a 
good  membership  in  a  good,  new  church. 
The  colored  membership  was  large,  and  I 
usually  preached  for  them  at  three  in  the  after- 
noon in  the  Sunday-school  room,  which  was 
the  basement.  Jonesbore  was  then  the  best 
town  between  Knoxville  and  the  State  line, 
Bristol.  There  was  no  Bristol  then;  it  was 
known  as  James  King's  big  meadows,  post 
office,  Sapling  Grove.  The  legal  profession 
was  very  strong  at  Jonesboro:  James  W.  Dead- 
erick,  T.  A.  R.  Nelson,  S.  J.  W.  Luckey,  John 
Blair,  Landon  Haynes,  William  Maxwell, 
T.  D.  Arnold,  John  Aiken,  and  others.  A 
historic  old  town  was  Jonesboro,  once  the 
capital  of  the  State  of  Franklin. 

Here  and  hereabouts  the  Seviers  and  Tiptons 
had  their  long  and  bitter  struggle  for  political 
supremacy.     At    this    time    Odd    Fellowship 


121 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

was  very  popular  in  East  Tennessee.  Many 
of  the  best  citizens  were  members  of  the  order, 
and  they  turned  their  attention  to  the  cause 
of  education — very  wisely,  as  I  think — and 
used  their  organization  to  establish  and 
maintain  schools.  The  lodge  at  Rogersville 
established  the  Odd  Fellows'  Female  College 
there,  and  conducted  it  for  years.  It  is  now 
the  synodical  College  of  the  Presbyterian 
Church. 

The  lodge  at  Abingdon,  Va.,  undertook  a 
very  extensive  school  enterprise,  and  spent  a 
good  deal  of  money  on  it;  but  a  little  later  it 
was  turned  over  to  our  Church,  and  is  now  our 
Martha  Washington,  the  oldest  of  our  Holston 
female  colleges.  The  lodge  at  Jonesboro, 
made  up  of  the  best  citizens  of  the  town  and 
county,  projected  a  similar  enterprise  and 
established  an  Odd  Fellows'  Female  College 
there  in  1853.  Rufus  P.  Wells,  pastor  of  the 
Presbyterian  Church,  and  I  were  elected 
associate  principals.  I  consented  to  the  ar- 
rangement as  a  temporary  "supply,"  not 
dreaming  that  I  should  ever  become  a  school- 
man. And  yet  four-fifths  of  the  time  since 
that  have  I  been  a  teacher.  How  little  one 
knows  what  his  life  shall  be!     I  fully  expected 


122 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


to  be  a  regular  field  hand,  but  Providence  put 
me  in  the  shop.  I  am  sure  it  did  not  once 
occur  to  me  to  be  anything  but  a  traveling 
Methodist  preacher.  Nor  did  my  accept- 
ance of  the  position  in  this  school  involve  a 
change  of  purpose.  The  school  prospered. 
Our  music  teacher  was  Miss  Chisom,  from 
Fort  Smith,  Ark.  She  was  a  Cherokee  quad- 
roon, and  carried  strong  marks  of  her  Indian 
blood  and  was  a  good  musician  and  a  sensible, 
practical  woman.  This  was  at  a  time  when 
the  E.  T.  &  V.  R.  R.  was  being  graded.  Mr* 
R.  L.  Owen  was  chief  engineer,  and  after- 
wards became  President  of  the  road.  He  and 
Miss  Chisom  and  I  boarded  at  the  same  hotel. 
To  make  the  story  short,  he  courted  and 
married  her.  I  had  the  pleasure  of  officiating 
at  the  wedding,  and  Miss  A.  R.  Blair,  men- 
tioned elsewhere,  was  bridesmaid.  He  took 
his  bride  to  Lynchburg,  his  native  town. 
To  them  were  born  two  sons — Otway  and 
Robert  L.,  manly  young  fellows  who  used  to 
visit  us  with  their  mother  when  they  were  but 
lads.  Otway,  I  think,  died  young.  After  the 
death  of  Mr.  Owen,  she  took  her  son,  now 
grown  and  educated  in  a  Virginia  college, 
back  to  the  Territory.   I  see  stated  in  the  papers 


123 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

of  this  week  that  "Robert  L.  Owen,  who  is 
one-eighth  Cherokee,  has  been  nominated  by 
the  Democrats  for  a  seat  in  the  United  States 
Senate,  at  Muskogee,  Ind.  T."  Bravo!  Bravo! 
Well,  Robert  is  no  milksop,  I'll  warrant  you, 
and  his  good  tomahawk  will  be  a  match  for  Mr. 
Tillman's  pitchfork. 

This  year  I  attended  a  camp  meeting  at  the 
celebrated  Brush  Creek  Camp  Ground  site, 
now  within  the  corporate  limits  of  Johnson 
City.  Here,  some  years  before,  occurred  a 
fearful  tragedy  at  a  night  service  during  a 
thunderstorm,  which  resulted  in  the  death 
of  two  very  popular  young  people  by  a  stroke 
of  lightning.  Rev.  N.  G.  Taylor  gave  me  an 
account  of  it.     The  young  people  killed  were 

Mn  Gillespie  and  his  betrothed,  Miss 

Mary  Taylor,  sister  of  N.  G.  Taylor,  then  a 
young  man,  and  aunt  of  Hon.  Robert  L. 
Taylor,  of  the  United  States  Senate.  Mr. 
Gillespie  and  Miss  Taylor  were  standing  in 
the  door  of  a  tent  only  a  few  feet  back  of  the 
preacher's  stand,  and  Taylor  said  he  was  sitting 
in  the  tent,  near  by,  listening  to  William  Mil- 
burn  preach  on  the  judgment,  and  that  a  feel- 
ing of  awful  solemnity  seemed  to  burden  the 
air.     This  I  can  well  believe;  for  when  William 


124 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


Milburn   preached   on   the  judgment   it  was 
awful  preaching,  and  I  doubt  not  the  sermon 
and  the  lightning  and  thunder  were  in  unison. 
Taylor  said  there  were  three  strokes  of  light- 
ning in  quick  succession,  the  first  some  little 
distance  up  the  valley,  the  second  much  nearer. 
The  third  did  the  fearful  work,  killing  the  two 
and  prostrating  many  others.     Brother  Taylor 
said    he  was  unconscious  for  a  few   minutes, 
and  when  restored  found  that  "the  red-winged 
messenger    had    taken    my    beautiful    sister 
almost  right  out  of  my  arms."     Then  he  gave  a 
graphic  description  of  the  awful  scene.     How 
I    wish    I    could    produce    the    word-painted 
picture  which  he  drew  of  that  midnight  of 
horrors — its  blackness  of  darkness,  the   rain 
coming  down  in  floods,  the  bellowing  thunder 
literally  shaking  the  earth  as  the  vivid  lightning 
threatened  to  set  the  whole  encampment  on  fire ; 
the  awe-struck  assembly  in  the  greatest  terror 
and  confusion,  some  praying,  some  screaming, 
and  all  rushing  here  and  there  in  blind  dis- 
traction.    The  bodies  of  the  two  young  lovers 
were  placed  side  by  side  on  the  straw  under  the 
shed. 

N.  G.  Taylor  was  perhaps  a  more  eloquent 
and  graphic  delineator  of  tragic  scenes  than 


1*5 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

either  his  honored  sons,  Robert  L.  or  Alf  A. 
I  stood  with  him  on  the  very  spot  in  the  very 
tent  door  where  young  Gillespie  and  Mary 
Taylor  stood  when  the  bolt  struck  them,  and 
heard  him  tell  .the  gruesome  story,  his  lips 
quivering  and  his  eyes  half  filled  with  tears. 
I  had  the  pleasure  of  preaching  to  him  and  his 
wife  and  "Old  Black  Mammy"  at  three  o'clock 
Sunday  evening  at  that  meeting,  Bob  and  Alf 
being  little  chaps  then.  That  Taylor  family 
is  now  on  my  list  of  long-time  friends,  and 
my  recollections  of  many  tokens  of  love  from 
them  is  very  pleasant.  Mrs.  Taylor  was  a 
queenly  person,  a  very  brilliant  woman,  a  fine 
conversationalist,  and  a  charming  musician, 
and,  mark  you,  mother  of  "The  Fiddle  and 
the  Bow."  She  was  a  sister  of  Landon  C. 
Haynes,  perhaps  the  most  captivating  orator 
these  East  Tennessee  hills  ever  gave  to  the 
country.  I  seem  to  see  her  now,  like  Cornelia, 
daughter  of  Scipio  Africanus  and  mother  of 
the  immortal  Gracchi,  standing  between  her 
two  sons,  saying,  "Haec  ornamenta  mea  sunt" 
("These  are  my  jewels") — honored  sons  of  a 
noble  ancestry,  as  worthy  of  immortality  as 
Tiberius  and  Caius  of  classic  story! 


126 


XV 
DEATH  OF  JAMES  H.  CARDWELL- 

N  the  last  chapter  we  were 
at  Jonesboro,  Tenn.  (1853), 
and  I  was  closing  my  third 
year  in  the  ministry  at  old  Brush 
I  Creek  Camp  Meeting.  The 
most  memorable  occurrence  of  this  year  was 
the  death  of  my  brother-in-law,  James  H. 
Cardwell,  of  Abingdon,  Va.  My  sister  wrote 
me  of  his  sickness,  and  requested  me  to 
come  to  them.  She  was  in  delicate  health, 
with  a  babe  only  a  few  weeks  old  in  her 
arms.  I  went  at  once,  and  found  him  very 
low  in  the  last  stages  of  typhoid  fever; 
but  his  mind  was  clear  and  his  faith  tri- 
umphant. He  was  a  dear,  good  man. 
I  perhaps  had  not  known  a  better — a  class 
leader  and  a  Sunday-school  superintendent,  a 
fine  singer  and  mighty  in  prayer,  a  man  of  fine 
social  qualities,  who  loved  and  enjoyed  life. 
He  had  an  interesting  young  family,  a  wife  and 
five  children;  and  now  the  end  was  nigh,  when 
he  must  surrender  all  his  cherished  plans  for 


127 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

life  and  leave  his  wife  a  widow  and  his  children 
fatherless.  He  had  been  an  elder  brother  to 
me  when  I  was  at  Emory  and  Henry  College, 
ten  miles  away.  I  was  almost  crushed  as  I 
stood  by  his  bed,  with  his  little  family  stunned 
by  the  unutterable  sorrow  that  fell  like  a  bolt 
upon  their  heads  and  hearts.  That  night  I 
persuaded  sister  to  take  the  children  to  her 
room  and  let  me  watch.  We  were  alone — 
Cardwell  and  I.  A  little  fire  flickered  on  the 
hearth,  and  in  the  stillness  the  clock  seemed  to 
tick  unusually  loud.  We  talked  some  of  days 
gone  by,  and  some  of  his  wife  and  children, 
but  most  of  the  future.  He  did  not  believe 
that  he  could  get  well,  and  then  he  spoke  of 
God's  love  in  Christ  Jesus  and  his  promise  to 
be  a  husband  to  the  widow  and  a  father  to  his 
children.  His  eyes  filled  with  tears;  and  then, 
restraining  himself  a  moment,  he  said:  "Broth- 
er, they  will  not  let  me  shout  and  praise  my 
God;  and  I  wanted  you  to  come,  for  I  knew 
you  would."  I  said:  "Brother,  we  are  hop- 
ing that  you  may  get  well,  and  we  want  you 
to  husband  your  strength."  He  was  silent. 
After  a  few  moments,  I  took  my  seat  before  the 
fire  with  my  back  toward  him;  and  soon  I 
heard    a   whisper — a   deep    whisper — coming 

128 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


from  his  bed.  I  stole  a  look  back,  and  there 
he  was,  with  his  face  turned  right  up  toward 
heaven,  and  he  was  putting  his  hands  together 
and  then  separating  them  and  bringing  them 
together  again  while  in  the  act  of  clapping 
them;  and  then  he  said,  "Glory  to  God!  glory 
to  God!"  in  a  whisper.  That  midnight  hour  I 
have  never  forgotten.  I  have  never  felt  nearer 
to  God  and  heaven,  perhaps,  than  at  that 
silent  hour.  The  memory  of  it  comes  into 
the  recollections  of  an  old  man  as  he  looks 
back,  like  a  traveler,  to  the  high  places  he  has 
passed  and  sees  the  tops  of  the  distant  moun- 
tains still  bathed  in  the  mellow  sunlight  of  a 
peaceful  sunset. 

Next  morning  it  was  apparent  that  he  was 
growing  more  and  more  feeble,  and  we  felt  that 
the  end  was  nigh.  Sister  said  to  me:  "Watch, 
and  don't  let  him  get  away  without  speaking 
to  me  and  the  children.  Call  us  in  time/' 
The  doctor  came,  and  other  friends;  and  soon 
I  went  and  told  sister  to  come  in.  She  brought 
the  children  and  the  nurse  with  the  baby. 
As  soon  as  they  entered  the  room,  he  seemed 
to  understand  what  it  meant  and  held  out  his 
hands  and  took  the  babe  first  and  then  each 
child  in  his  arms  and  blessed  it.     And  then. 


129 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

looking  at  his  wife,  he  waited  with  outstretched 
arms  for  her  to  come;  and  with  a  short  prayer 
he  released  her  with  a  good-bye  kiss,  the  last 
of  earth.  And  from  that  moment  he  never 
seemed  to  know  that  he  had  a  wife  or  a  child — 
never  spoke  of  them  again.  They  had  passed 
out  of  his  earthly  life.  The  nurse  took  the 
children  into  an  adjoining  room,  where  a 
number  of  weeping  women  had  assembled. 
I  took  sister  up  in  my  arms,  and  half  carried 
her,  limp,  from  the  room.  A  heartbroken 
sigh  and  a  deep  groan  told  how  surely  she  felt 
the  stroke  that  left  her  a  widow  with  a  group 
of  orphan  children.  I  could  scarcely  move 
her  along,  she  seemed  so  reluctant  to  go. 
But  to  our  astonishment,  just  as  we  passed 
through  the  door  into  the  next  room,  she 
sprang  from  my  arms  and  said:  "Glory  to 
God!  No,  this  is  not  all — heaven  and  eternity 
are  yet  left!"  And  so  she  continued  to  walk 
up  and  down  the  room  shouting,  while  we 
all  wondered  at  the  strange  woman.  The 
neighbor  v/omen  looked  at  me  with  tear-filled 
eyes  and  said  plainly  enough:  "What  does 
all  this  mean  ?"  I  guessed  at  some  things,  but 
said  nothing;  for  I  could  see  only  the  outside. 
Then  I  caught  her  in  my  arms  and  laid  her 


130 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


on  the  bed,  where  she  became  quiet,  with  a 
smile  on  her  face,  as  with  upturned  gaze,  she 
seemed  to  be  looking  far  away  at  beautiful 
things.     Next  morning  she  said:     "Brother, 
you  were  all  surprised  at  my  conduct  yesterday 
when  we  came  out  of  Henry's  room.     Well, 
when  we  left  his  bedside,   I  could  think  of 
nothing  but  good-bye  forever.     All  was  shut 
up — black  as  midnight.     This  is  the  last  save 
sad  memory  and  buried  hope.     But  just  as 
we  passed  out  of  the  room,  there  came  back  to 
me  all  in  a  moment,  like  a  burst  of  light,  the 
great  truths  he  and  I  had  so  often  talked  of 
and  loved  so  much — that  death  was  not  the 
end,  that  heaven  and  eternity  were  just  on  the 
other  side.     And  I  believed  it  all  and  blessed 
God  for  it."     And  she  was  ready  to  go  to 
shouting  again.     It  was  all  plain  enough  now, 
and  we  felt  the  joy  of  it.     We  buried  the  good 
man  there  in  the  good  old  town  of  Abingdon, 
among  his  friends,  to  await  the  trumpet  that 
shall    call   the    sleepers   in   Jesus.     His   wife 
joined  him  many  years  ago,  going  up  with  a 
shout.     Mother  died  that  way  too — O  so  long 
ago!     Dr.  Daniel  Trigg,  the  family  physician, 
went  out  on  the  street,  and  to  inquiring  friends 
said  that  Cardwell  was  dead.     And  when  he 


131 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


had  told  them  of  the  deathbed  scene,  he  added: 
"Friends,  when  I  die  I  want  to  die  Cardwell's 
way."  And  I  have  been  saying,  "Amen;  me 
too,"  ever  since. 

And  now,  Mr.  Editor  and  kind  reader,  this 
short  chapter  is  to  comply  in  part  with  the 
promise  made  sometime  ago  to  continue  the 
"Recollections  of  An  Old  Man."  So  I  will, 
as  the  good  Lord  shall  give  me  strength  and 
guide  my  unskilled  hand.  I  have  written  too 
little  and  talked  too  much  in  my  time.  Indeed, 
I  think  people  talk  too  much;  most  men  do,  and 
some  women. 

I  am  charmed  as  we  follow  Dr.  Richardson 
toward  "sunset"  with  his  war  experience  and 
things  that  happened  this  side  of  it — aye,  this 
side  of  it!  He  and  Price  had  a  good  time,  I'll 
warrant,  in  that  Mills  River  country  among 
the  Tarheels.  There  are  no  better  people 
known  to  me.  Richardson  got  a  good  deal  out 
of  that  country  in  the  love  and  friendship  of 
the  people;  but  Price  got  more;  he  got  his  wife 
there  at  Asheville,  the  sister  of  Genl.  Bob  and 
Hon.  Zeb  Vance.  That  makes  me  think  of 
something.  It  was  when  he  and  I  were 
associated  in  the  faculty  of  Emory  and  Henry 
College.     We  had  been  drumming  around  the 


132 


■»■>■)  S3  --,-,- 


F.    RICHARDSON  D.    SULLINS  R     N.    PRICE 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


land  for,  say,  two  weeks  together,  when  we 
stopped  for  dinner  one  day;  and  while  the 
dinner   was   being   prepared,    Price   said:  "I 
must  write  to  my  wife."     When  he  had  fin- 
ished his  letter  and  was  ready  to  back  it,  he 
had    forgotten    his    wife's   given    name,    and 
turned    to    me    with:     "What  is    my  wife's 
given  name?"     I  answered:     "You    married 
Ann  Vance."     "Yes— pshaw — Ann,"  he  said, 
and  so  finished  the  letter.     He  was  perhaps 
thinking  about  an  editorial  for  the  Holston 
Methodist  (afterwards  the  Midland),  of  which 
he  was  then  editor.     Well,  I  was  to  see  them 
the  other  day;  and  the  old  people  are  as  cozy 
as  cats  in  the  corner,  having  light  at  evening 
time.     And  Richardson  is  their  beloved  pastor. 
Think  of  that!     Dick  and  Frank  together  at 
Morristown,    and    Dave    here   at   Cleveland, 
thinking    and    writing    about    them.     Well, 
boys,  we  have  worked  in  this  field  together 
nearly  sixty  years.     It   must  be  getting  late, 
and  nearly  all  our  fellows  have  quit  and  gone 
home.     Only  another  row  or  two  at  most  to 
hoe.     The  whip-poor-will  has  begun  his  even- 
ing song  up  in  the  shaded  hollow;  and  mother 
is  coming  down  the  hill  to  the  well  for  milk  and 
butter  for  supper,  singing:     "O  heaven,  sweet 
heaven,  I  long  for  thee!"   Let's  hurry  up  a  little. 


133 


XVI 

MY  THIRD  APPOINTMENT 

ONFERENCE  met  this  year 
(1853)  at  Wytheville,  Va., 
Bishop  Paine  in  the  chair  and 
W.  C.  Graves,  secretary.  When 
my  name  was  called  in  the  ex- 
amination of  character,  my  presiding  elder, 
T.  K.  Catlett,  rose  and  said  in  substance: 
"There  is  a  report  abroad  that  he  has 
broken  a  marriage  engagement,  to  his  dis- 
credit." That  put  a  stop  to  the  passage  of 
my  character,  and  almost  frightened  me  out 
of  breath.  But  my  friends  asked  for  a  com- 
mittee of  investigation.  And  I  learned  that  a 
brother-in-law  of  the  young  lady  went  before 
the  committee  in  her  name  and  exonerated  me. 
The  committee  so  reported.  I  was  never 
called  before  the  committee.  My  character 
passed.  And  immediately  the  committee  of 
public  worship  announced  that  I  would  preach 
at  3  p.  m.  This  I  did  to  a  full  house, 
many  of  whom,  no  doubt,  were  curious 
to  see  the  young  preacher  who  had  a  reputa- 


134 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


tion  for  fondness  for  the  ladies.  Well,  I  was 
humble  and  grateful  and  "had  liberty;"  and! 
the  dear  old  mothers  helped  the  boy  preach* 
with  many  an  "Amen"  and  "Glory  to  God." 
We  had  a  good  time,  and  the  congregation 
took  me  fully  into  their  confidence  by  an  all- 
round  hand-shaking.  And  the  Bishop  and 
the  cabinet  seemed  to  agree  with  the  people, 
for  I  was  appointed  to  the  presidency  of 
Strawberry  Plains  College,  1853-54.  Another 
clap  of  thunder  in  a  clear  sky!  A  word 
about  this  school  for  the  information  of  the 
young  people  and  to  preserve  historical  fact 
concerning  our  educational  work  in  Holston. 
Emory  and  Henry  had  been  founded  some 
fifteen  years  before  in  the  Virginia  part  of 
our  territory;  and  the  old  school  at  New 
Market,  under  the  presidency  of  Rev.  Allen 
H.  Matthews,  had  gone  down.  So  we  had 
no  school  in  the  southern  part  of  our  field, 
where  one  was  much  needed.  Rev.  Thomas 
Stringfield,  one  of  our  oldest  and  wisest 
leaders,  lived  at  the  Plains  and  owned  a. 
fine  farm  on  the  banks  of  the  Holston  River 
where  the  town  of  Straw  Plains  now  stands. 
Mr.  Stringfield  donated  some  sixteen  acres, 
on  which  was   a   grove   of  trees,   for  school 


135 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

purposes.  Here  were  built  some  fairly  good 
houses  on  the  hill  just  east  of  where  the  town 
is  situated,  and  for  several  years  a  school  was 
conducted  there  under  the  name  of  Strawberry 
Plains  College.  Our  now  sainted  James  S. 
Kennedy,  who  had  just  graduated  from  Emory 
and  Henry,  was  head  master  here  for  several 
years.  And  it  was  during  these  years  that  he 
courted  and  married  Miss  Stringfield,  who 
became  the  mother  of  a  large  family  of  superior 
sons  and  daughters.  Among  them  our  hon- 
ored missionary  J.  L.  Kennedy,  of  Brazil. 
Brother  Kennedy  had  left  the  school  at  the 
Plains,  having  accepted  a  professorship  in  the 
faculty  of  Randolph  and  Macon  in  Virginia. 
Mr.  Stringfield  was  now  an  old  man  and  no 
longer  able  to  give  the  school  much  attention, 
and  his  family,  which  had  been  the  strength  of 
the  enterprise,  were  grown  up  and  gone,  save 
Miss  Mary  (now  Mrs.  Ray,  of  Asheville,  N. 
C.)  and  James,  then  away  at  college,  who 
afterwards  became  a  member  of  our  Con- 
ference and  much  beloved  by  his  brethren,  a 
young  man  of  great  promise,  but  died  young. 
Mrs.  Butler,  editor  of  the  Woman  s  Advocate, 
another  daughter,  was  then  in  Knoxville  with 
her  husband,  a  merchant.     And  Maj.  William, 

136 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


another  son,  was,  perhaps  at  Waynesville,  N. 
C.  The  friends  of  the  college  were  scattered, 
the  school  run  down,  the  buildings  out  of 
repair  and  grounds  neglected;  so  Mr.  String- 
field  asked  and  secured  my  appointment  to  it, 
hoping  that  something  could  be  done  to  revive 
its  fortunes.  I  went  there  after  Conference, 
and  finding  matters  as  stated  above,  concluded 
that  it  was  a  hopeless  job  without  money  to 
make  repairs,  etc.  I  went  back  to  Jonesboro. 
The  buildings  at  Strawberry  Plains  were  all 
burned  during  the  war,  I  believe.  And  there 
is  no  trace  of  them  left.  Let  me  add  another 
word  about  our  Holston  schools.  Soon  after 
the  founding  of  Emory  and  Henry  College,  Rev 
John  H.  Brunner  (now  Dr.)  began  his  wonder- 
working at  Hiwassee  College,  which  has 
weathered  the  storm  of  half  a  century  and  still 
flourishes.  Success  to  Rev.  Dr.  Eugene  Blake, 
who  now  has  charge  of  it.  It  has  a  worthy  his- 
tory and  is  now,  as  I  believe,  one  of  the  best 
schools  for  our  young  people  in  all  our  Holston 
country;  is  better  equipped  for  thorough  work 
to-day  than  ever  before,  in  buildings  and 
outfit.  It  is  co-educational.  Write  to  Rev. 
Dr.  Eugene  Blake  for  information,  Hiwassee 
College,  Tenn. 


137 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

I  still  held  the  position  of  associate  principal 
in  the  college  with  Rev.  R.  P.  Wells,  of  the  Pres- 
byterian Church.  He  and  I  found  the  double 
work  of  pastor  and  teacher  very  heavy. 
And  so,  by  way  of  a  little  relief,  we  agreed  that 
he  should  bring  his  congregation  to  my  church 
on  alternate  Sunday  nights  and  preach  to  both 
congregations,  and  I  go  alternate  Sunday 
nights  to  his  church  with  my  people  and 
preach.  In  this  way  we  had  an  off  night 
every  other  Sunday  night.  But  his  health 
soon  failed,  and  he  gave  up  the  work. 
This  greatly  increased  my  work  and  responsi- 
bility. But  I  was  young  and  strong  physically, 
having  developed  bone  and  muscle  on  the 
farm  until  I  was  eighteen  years  old.  And  I 
have  reason  to  this  day,  in  my  eighty-first  year, 
to  thank  God  for  a  strong  and  healthy  body. 
So  I  shouldered  the  labors  and  cares  of  church 
and  school.  And  I  am  glad  I  did,  for  as  I  now 
look  back  over  the  fifty-four  intervening  years 
to  those  days  and  note  results,  I  gravely  doubt 
if  I  have  done  five  years  of  better  work  in 
all  my  life.  True,  the  board  of  management 
of  the  school  gave  me  superior  assistants  as 
teachers,  and  the  whole  town  was  in  sympathy 
with  the  school.     But  that  which  now  strikes 

ij8 


Seventy  Years  in  T)ixie 


me  as  most  noteworthy  during  those  years 
was  the  superior  character  of  the  girls  and 
young  women  who  attended  school.  No  faculty 
ever  had  better  material  out  of  which  to 
develop  charming  womanhood.  Bear  with 
me  and  note  I  am  not  bragging  on  myself, 
but  on  my  pupils.  The  very  best  men  of  the 
land  sought  them  for  wives.  Let  me  mention 
a  few  of  them  and  the  sensible  men  who 
married  them:  Virginia  Blair,  wife  of  Rev. 
Dr.  W.  E.  Munsey;  Eva  Dulaney,  wife  of  Rev. 
Dr.  John  Bachman,  Chattanooga,  Tenn. ;  Sallie 
Cunningham,  wife  of  Rev.  Nathan  Bachman, 
Sweetwater,  Tenn.;  Jodie  Burts,  wife  of  Rev. 
W.  H.  Bates,  of  Holston  Conference  for 
twenty-nine  years;  Nannie  Ripley,  wife  of  Rev. 
J.  N.  S.  Huffaker,  twenty  years  a  member  of 
Holston;  Eva  Snapp,  wife  of  Rev.  A.  A.  Blair, 
sometime  professor  in  Tennessee  University; 
Sopha  Hoss,  wife  of  Rev.  Dr.  J.  D.  French, 
of  Holston  Conference,  and  Dora  Hoss,  wife  of 
Judge  S.  J.  Kirkpatrick,  Johnson  City,  Tenn. 
(sisters  of  the  Bishop);  Irene  Blair,  wife  of 
John  E.  Naff,  of  Holston;  Ann  Mary  Deade- 
rick,  wife  of  the  late  W.  T.  Van  Dyke,  Esq., 
of  Chattanooga;  Laura  Mitchell,  wife  of 
Judge  J.   F.  J.   Lewis,   of  Knoxville;   Kitty 


139 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

Wilds,  wife  of  the  late  Judge  A.  J.  Brown, 
Greeneville,  Tenn. ;  Ella  Luckey,  wife  of  the 
late  Judge  Jesse  Gaut,  of  Cleveland,  Tenn.; 
Issadore  Deaderick,  wife  of  Hon.  J.  A.  Moon, 
Chattanooga,  Tenn.  (M.  C);  Sallie  Luckey, 
wife  of  the  late  Colonel  Moore,  of  Dalton, 
Ga.;  Sallie  Foster,  wife  of  Rev.  Samuel  Rhea, 
missionary  to  India;  Eva  Burts,  wife  of  the  late 
Hon.  Felix  Ernest,  Johnson  City,  Tenn.; 
Mollie  Dulaney,  wife  of  M.  M.  Butler,  M.  D., 

Bristol,  Tenn.; Dulaney,  wife  of  Judge 

C.  J.  St.  John,  Bristol,  Tenn.;  Ann  Rebecca 
Blair,  wife  of  D.  Sullins,  of  Holston  Conference 
for  fifty-seven  years;  and  others  whose  names 
do  not  occur  to  me  at  this  writing,  now  after  the 
lapse  of  fifty-four  years.  In  addition  to  these, 
there  are  half  a  score  and  more  wives  of  the 
most  influential  and  successful  merchants  and 
farmers  in  the  State.  These  men  and  their 
wives  have  had  much  to  do  in  the  shaping  of 
public  sentiment  in  the  State;  and  especially 
in  the  religious  life  of  this  land  for  the  last 
fifty  years.  Look  over  the  list  and  say  if  I  may 
not  be  a  little  proud  of  having  had  some  humble 
part  in  the  education  of  such  a  class  of  wives 
and  mothers.  This  was  my  first  four  years  as 
a  teacher.     Am  I  become  a  fool  for  boasting  ? 


140 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


Well,  Paul  says  he  was  once.  But  there  is  a 
difference  between  Paul  and  me  in  this  case, 
as  in  many  others.  He  was  provoked  to  it — 
I  tempted.  I  hope  the  good  women  whose 
names  I  have  used  above  will  pardon  the 
liberty  I  have  taken. 


141 


XVII 

REVIVAL  IN  SCHOOL 

URING  this  year  (1854)  we  had 
a  rather  peculiar  revival  of 
religion,  which  was  largely  con- 
fined to  the  school.  I  say 
peculiar,  and  so  it  was  in  its 
origin  and  progress  and  otherwise.  Read  on 
and  see.  After  school  closed  one  Indian 
summer  evening,  we  all  came  down  from 
the  hill  on  which  the  school  buildings 
stood,  the  young  ladies  and  smaller  children 
(say  a  hundred  and  fifty)  chatting  and  laugh- 
ing as  usual,  a  happy  group,  I  bringing  up  the 
rear.  I  remember,  as  I  looked  over  the  long 
line  moving  down  the  sidewalk,  there  came 
suddenly  and  strangely  a  most  tender  solici- 
tude for  the  salvation  of  the  playful  rompers. 
Some  of  them  were  Christians,  I  knew;  but 
many  were  not.  But  why  there  should  come 
just  at  that  moment  such  a  sense — a  burdening 
sense — of  responsibility  and  obligation  upon 
me  touching  those  young  souls,  I  could  not  tell. 
I  have  always  felt  a  strong  desire  for  the  salva- 


142 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


tion  of  my  pupils,  and  prayed  and  planned  for 
it;  but  here  was  something  deeper  and  more 
solemn,  authoritative,  and  seemed  to  say: 
"Now  is  the  time."  And  with  this  there  came 
what  amounted  to  an  assurance  that  if  I 
would  go  right  forward  and  hold  a  meeting 
the  Lord  would  graciously  sanction  and  bless 
the  services.  There  was  no  special  religious 
interest  in  the  town,  and  I  had  not  thought  of 
such  a  meeting  at  that  time;  and  yet  this 
impression  was  so  definite  and  strong  that, 
without  once  thinking  of  what  might  be 
necessary  for  the  success  of  such  a  meeting, 
or  of  the  numerous  difficulties  in  the  way, 
I  determined  to  make  the  appointment. 

Now,  this  all  took  place  while  I  was  walking 
a  hundred  yards,  perhaps.  And  so,  going  on 
down  the  street,  I  met  two  or  three  of  my  most 
active  and  helpful  members;  but  I  did  not  con- 
sult them  as  to  whether  we  would  have  the  meet- 
ing; that  was  settled.  I  simply  told  them  there 
would  be  services  in  our  church  to-morrow 
night — come  praying  and  trusting.  I  made  the 
announcement  to  the  school  next  day,  after  a 
few  words  of  exhortation  to  the  children, 
and  invited  them  and  the  teachers  to  be  present. 
The  fight  was  now  on,  the  responsibility  as- 


H3 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

sumed.  Mr.  Wells,  pastor  of  the  Presby- 
terian Church,  was  away  from  home.  I  had 
no  ministerial  help,  and  not  much  lay  help. 
True,  there  was  Uncle  Jimmy  Dillworth 
(about  first  cousin  to  Dillworth's  spelling 
book,  that  was),  the  superintendent  of  the 
Sunday-school  and  the  class  leader,  and  a 
good  right  arm  for  any  preacher.  We  had  no 
organ,  large  or  small  (an  organ  would  have 
frightened  my  people  then),  no  choir  and  no 
leader  of  singing,  no  song  book  but  our 
regular  hymn  book,  and  no  preacher  but  me; 
and  I  (a  poor  three-year-old)  had  been  pastor 
for  a  year,  and  had  preached  about  all  I  knew 
and  perhaps  a  little  more,  and  had  the  school 
on  my  hands.  A  poor  prospect,  humanly 
speaking;  and  from  the  standpoint  of  to-day, 
should  a  pastor  call  his  stewards  to  consider 
the  question  of  a  protracted  meeting  under 
such  conditions,  I  think  some  would  say: 
"Brethren,  I  don't  think  this  the  time;  let  us 
postpone  till  better  weather  and  moonlight 
nights."  In  those  days  we  did  not  have  so 
many  helpful  external  things  to  look  to,  so 
we  looked  almost  entirely  to  the  great  promise, 
"Not  by  might,  but  by  my  Spirit,"  and  God 
did  the  work.     Brothers,   our  God   has  not 


144 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


yet  lost  the  fine  art  of  doing  great  things  with 
little  instruments.  One  might  preach  a  word 
just  here;  but  I  am  writing  recollections,  and 
so  I  go  on.  Well,  the  appointment  got  abroad 
in  town,  and  when  the  time  came  for  services 
I  found  the  church  well  filled.  This  did  not 
surprise  me,  for  I  thought  it  would  be — why,  I 
don't  know.  The  official  and  working  mem- 
bers of  both  congregations  were  present,  and 
the  young  people  were  there,  thoughtful  and 
reverent.  I  did  the  little  preaching;  and  by 
way  of  giving  the  keynote  to  the  meeting, 
I  sang  a  solo  just  before  taking  my  text — 
a  not  uncommon  thing  for  a  preacher  then, 
but  much  out  of  vogue  jiow.  The  song  was 
not  in  the  book,  so  the  people  had  only  ta 
listen;  and  I  sang: 

"Brethren,  we  have  met  to  worship 

And  adore  the  Lord  our  God. 
Will  you  pray  with  all  your  power 

While  we  try  to  preach  the  word  ? 
Brethren,  see  poor  sinners  round  you 

Trembling  on  the  brink  of  woe, 
Far  from  God  and  unconverted  ; 

Can  you  bear  to  let  them  go  ? 
Sisters,  will  you  join  and  help  us  ? 

Moses'  sister  aided  him  ; 
Will  you  seek  the  trembling  mourners 

Who  are  laboring  hard  with  sin  ? 
Tell  them  all  about  the  Saviour, 


145 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

Tell  them  that  he  will  be  found; 
Sisters,  go  exhort  the  mourners, 
Speak  the  word  to  all  around." 

This  I  sang,  and  more.  And  I  did  not 
mouth  the  words,  nor  sacrifice  the  sense  and 
sentiment  of  the  song  for  the  sake  of  a  half 
tone  or  crescendo  in  the  melody.  The  people 
knew  what  was  said.  And  when  I  sang, 
"Sisters,  will  you  join  and  help  us  ?"  I  could 
almost  see  the  "Yes,  we  will"  in  their  up- 
turned faces,  and  it  helped  me.  The  meeting 
moved  right  off  at  a  good  gait.  Conversions 
occurred  in  the  church,  in  the  homes,  in  the 
school,  at  recess,  and  under  the  trees  on  the 
campus.  I  preached  at  night,  and  taught 
during  the  day.  We  did  not  suspend  the 
school.  A  word  here:  I  am  persuaded  from 
experience  that  it  is  a  mistake  to  suspend  a 
school  when  the  Lord  sends  a  revival  into  it. 
Two  duties  can  never  conflict.  Let  the  pupils 
know  that  it  is  religious  to  do  their  daily  work; 
religion  and  duty  are  one.  It  may  be  well 
to  modify  the  daily  requirements  some,  but 
don't  pull  the  bridle  off  the  colts;  they  may 
caper  beyond  the  fence,  and  "Satan  will  find 
mischief  for  idle  hands  to  do."  Let  him  that 
hath  ears  to  hear  listen. 

146 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


I  gave  myself  no  concern  as  to  when  the 
meeting  should  close.  It  was  the  Lord's 
meeting.  He  had  begun  it;  and  I,  with  cheer- 
ful submission,  left  it  with  Him  to  close  it. 
It  continued  for  some  ten  days;  and  when  the 
time  came  to  close  it,  I  did  so,  satisfied  that  it 
was  according  to  His  will.  The  closing  night 
was  full  of  interest.  After  a  genuine  song 
service  and  some  few  words  of  exhortation,  I 
opened  the  door  of  the  Church  (the  first  time 
during  the  services),  and  in  doing  so  said  in 
substance:  "Those  who  want  to  join  the 
Methodist  Church,  come  and  take  your  places 
here  on  these  front  seats  to  my  left.^  Sixteen 
came,  nearly  all  grown  young  ladies.  Then 
I  said:  "I  know  that  many  of  you  who  have 
started  the  new  life  are  members  of  Presby- 
terian families  and  ought  to  go  into  the  church 
with  your  parents.  But  Brother  Wells  is  not 
here,  and  I  want  such  of  you  as  will  go  into 
the  Presbyterian  Church  at  the  first  opportu- 
nity to  come  to  these  seats  at  my  right.  I  will 
take  your  names  and  report  them  to  him 
when  he  gets  home."  And  eight  came.  And 
so  it  was  done.  That  was  the  first  time  I 
ever   opened    the    door    of  the    Presbyterian 


147 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

Church.     The  next  time  was  when  I  broke 
into  it  and  got  my  wife  out  a  year  later. 

Now,  that  was  my  peculiar  revival.  Does 
some  reader  say:  "I  don't  understand  that 
sort  of  a  meeting.  Can  you  explain  it  ?"  I 
don't  have  to,  thank  God!  It  is  like  prophecy 
— interpreted  by  results.  Let  any  man  who 
has  known  East  Tennessee  for  the  last  fifty 
years  take  the  list  of  names  of  wives  given  in 
the  last  chapter,  most  of  whom  were  converted 
in  this  revival,  and  note  how  much  of  the  best 
found  in  the  Church  and  State  is  justly  as- 
cribed to  them  and  their  families,  and  he  will 
have  an  explanation  that  ought  to  be  satis- 
factory. Here's  my  guess:  The  Head  of  the 
Church  knew  (yes,  I  believe  in  the  fore- 
knowledge of  God)  that  these  preachers  and 
judges  and  lawyers  and  doctors  and  merchants 
and  farmers  would  marry  these  women  and 
largely  direct  the  affairs  of  Church  and  State; 
and  that  it  T  was  very  necessary  that  these 
girls  should  be  converted,  seeing  that,  like 
their  royal  sister  of  Shushan,  they  had  "come 
to  the  kingdom  for  such  a  time" — aye,  such 
a  time.  And  so  he  used  this  strange  revival 
to  that  end.  And  I  thank  Him  for  using  me 
in  an  humble  way  for  such  a  service. 

148 


XVIII 
MARRIAGE 

FTER  a  pastorate  of  two  years 
at  Jonesboro  (1852-53  and 
1853-54),  the  Conference  con- 
tinued to  return  me  to  the 
school  till  the  year  1857.  Dur- 
ing these  years  we  had  for  our  pastors  T.  J. 
Pope,  Coleman  Campbell,  and  J.  N.  S. 
Huffaker.  Brother  Pope  did  not  fill  out  his 
time,  and  so  I  supplied  the  work  in  part. 
Coleman  Campbell  was  a  superior  preach- 
er, but  had  suffered  with  some  paralysis 
of  the  muscles  of  the  face.  He  was  a  sweet- 
spirited  and  charming  companion.  I  used 
to  sit  behind  him  in  the  pulpit  and  listen  and 
wonder  at  the  grace  and  force  of  his  utterances. 
He  used  a  large  red  bandanna  handkerchief, 
and  occasionally  flourished  it  about  while 
preaching.  Well,  I  was  sitting  behind  him 
one  day,  and  Campbell  had  put  his  red  ban- 
danna in  his  pocket,  leaving  one  corner  of  it 
hanging  out.  Just  then  a  piece  of  mischief 
crept  into  my  head,  and  I  had  as  well  tell  it, 


149 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

or  Bishop  Hoss  will  tell  it  on  me.  My  hand- 
kerchiefs were  linen.  I  had  not  been  married 
long,  and  my  wife  kept  mine  with  hers;  so 
when  she  gave  me  one,  it  filled  the  air  with  a 
delightful  perfume.  All  right.  I  slipped 
Coleman's  out  of  his  pocket,  and  put  mine  in 
its  place.  Soon  he  had  occasion  to  use  his, 
and,  as  he  thought,  got  it  out  and  flourished 
it  before  his  face.  He  hesitated  a  moment, 
looked  at  it,  and  passed  it  under  his  nose; 
and  it  would  have  "made  a  dog  laugh" 
to  see  his  face.  Of  course  I  was  looking  out 
of  the  window  just  then.  Campbell  turned 
half  around  to  see  me,  and  then  rallied  and 
went  on.  Hoss  was  a  wide-awake  boy  in  the 
congregation,  and  a  piece  of  that  sort  of 
mischief  by  a  preacher  in  church  was  not  al- 
lowed to  pass  unnoticed  or  be  forgotten. 

In  1855  (May  3)  I  was  married  to  Ann 
Rebecca  Blair,  youngest  daughter  of  Hon. 
John  Blair,  who  for  some  twelve  years  repre- 
sented his  district  (the  First)  in  Congress. 
My  brother,  Timothy,  officiated.  The  Blair 
family  was  a  large  one.  There  were  three 
brothers  of  the  old  stock — William  K.,  John, 
and  Robert.  All  came  from  Pennsylvania, 
were   Presbyterians,   and   had  large  families. 


15° 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


So  I  was  in  a  nest  of  bluestockings  and  akin 
to  nearly  everybody  in  the  community.  Wife 
and  I  had  a  home  with  her  father  for  two 
years  after  marriage.  The  Conference  had  so 
readily  consented  to  my  appointment  to  the 
school  for  so  many  years  that  all  seemed  to 
think  of  nothing  else  but  my  return  for  another 
year.  We  began  to  think  of  having  a  home  of 
our  own  in  Jonesboro,  maybe,  for  years. 
Mr.  Blair  gave  my  wife  a  nice  house  and  lot 
adjoining  his.  We  went  to  work,  busy  as  a 
pair  of  birds  preparing  a  nest.  We  repainted 
and  papered,  got  carpets,  furnished  kitchen, 
dining  room,  parlor,  and  bedrooms,  bought  a 
cow,  and  filled  the  pantry.  This  was  in  the 
fall  of  1857,  just  before  Conference  at  Marion. 
Mr.  Blair  suggested  that  we  should  not  make 
a  fire  in  the  cooking  stove,  but  leave  all  clean 
and  new  for  our  use  when  we  should  return 
from  Conference.  And  so  we  did.  The 
school  was  flourishing.  It  had  about  one 
hundred  and  seventy-five  pupils,  and  the 
Board  had  made  the  usual  application  to  the 
Conference  for  my  return.  Everything  was 
lovely.  Our  firstborn  was  six  months  old. 
So  we  went  to  Conference  in  fine  spirits,  and 
could  hardly  wait  to  go  into  our  new  home 


IS1 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

and  go  to  keeping  house  by  ourselves,  like 
other  folks.  Well,  to  get  over  a  boggy  place 
as  quickly  as  possible,  let  me  take  a  running 
start  and  jump  and  tell  you  at  once:  We 
did  not  get  back  to  live  in  our  house,  and 
it  was  sixteen  years  before  we  ever  had 
another.  We  were  read  out  to  go  to  Chat- 
tanooga, and  our  appointment  almost  came 
last  in  the  list.  Wife  and  I  sat  together, 
and  she  took  my  arm  and  we  moved  right 
out  of  the  house  and  started  to  our  home; 
neither  spoke,  as  far  as  I  know.  We  had 
not  walked  perhaps  twenty  steps  from  the 
church  door  when  I  felt  some  one  touch 
me  on  the  back,  and,  turning,  to  my  sur- 
prise found  it  was  Bishop  Early,  who  said 
hurriedly:  "Brother  Sullins,  you  will  go?" 
I  answered  without  a  moment's  hesitation  and 
emphatically:  "Certainly,  Bishop,  I  will  go." 
He  said  no  more,  but  "God  bless  you."  Ten 
thousand  things  rushed  through  my  mind  and 
heart — thoughts  flying  to  all  points  of  the 
compass.  A  cyclone  and  tornado  and  an 
earthquake  had  all  struck  us  at  the  same  time. 
My  answer  to  the  Bishop  made  all  clear  to 
my  wife.  We  were  going  to  Chattanooga; 
that  at  least  was  fixed,  and  it  was  well.  Nothing 


152 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


debatable,  we  had  only  to  shape  all  our  plans 
to  that  end.  Fortunately,  she  and  I  had  talked 
over  the  fact  of  my  relations  to  the  Conference 
before  we  were  married,  and  it  was  definitely 
understood  that  I  should  always  hold  myself 
ready  to  do  any  work  as  a  Methodist  preacher 
the  Church  might  require.  I  also  had  the 
same  understanding  with  the  trustees  of  the 
school;  my  staying  with  them  depended  on 
the  approval  of  my  Conference.  These  facts 
made  matters  much  easier  than  they  otherwise 
would  have  been.  But  what  a  destruction  of 
plans  and  cherished  hopes,  especially  for  my 
wife!  As  far  as  I  now  recollect,  neither  of  us 
ever  went  into  that  house  or  got  anything  out 
of  it.  I  told  Mr.  Blair  to  take  the  whole 
thing,  cow  and  all,  and  do  as  he  liked  with  it; 
we  were  going  to  Chattanooga.  O,  it  was  so 
hard  on  wife!  But  I  owe  it  to  the  devotion 
and  fidelity  of  the  true,  wifely  woman  (now  in 
heaven  for  six  years)  to  say  that  she  never  said 
a  word  to  hinder  or  delay  our  movements, 
nor  did  she  allow  others  to  do  so. 

Everything  was  put  on  the  run  to  get  us  off, 
and  in  less  than  ten  days  we  were  ready  to 
say  good-bye.  Conference  met  that  year  on 
October    22.     It    was    now    the    middle    of 


153 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

November.  We  took  the  train,  and  ran  to 
Limestone,  eleven  miles.  Limestone  was  then 
the  terminus  of  the  road  going  west.  There 
was  no  railroad  from  there  to  Bull's  Gap, 
the  terminus  going  east.  This  left  a  gap  of 
some  forty  miles.  Fortunately  for  us,  my 
wife's  oldest  brother,  William  P.  Blair,  was 
running  a  hack  line  over  this  gap.  So, 
when  we  got  to  Limestone,  we  took  a  hack 
and  went  a  mile  or  two  to  Mr.  Miller's,  where 
we  spent  the  night.  Next  morning,  to  our 
surprise  and  great  regret,  the  snow  was  five 
or  six  inches  deep.  Nothing  daunted  us; 
we  bundled  up  and  struck  out.  By  supper,  at 
dark,  we  got  to  Blue  Springs  (now  Mosheim). 
This  left  us  about  fourteen  or  fifteen  miles 
of  mud  and  slush  to  Bull's  Gap.  The  night 
was  dark  and  cold.  We  got  to  the  Gap  at  one 
that  night.  There  was  no  hotel,  just  a  little 
shack  by  the  roadside.  We  ran  in,  but  found 
no  room  empty.  So  we  got  some  mattresses 
and  made  beds  on  the  floor  before  the  fire. 
The  train  was  to  leave  next  morning  a  little 
before  daylight.  This  was  Friday  night; 
and  we  must  get  to  Chattanooga  next  day 
to  meet  my  first  appointment  on  Sunday,  and 
we  could  not  afford  to  miss  that  morning  train. 


154 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


A  little  uneasy  sleep,  fearing  croup  in  the 
baby,  and  then  up  and  off  at  daylight  for 
Chattanooga.  It  was  a  new  road,  and  the 
train  went  at  a  dog  trot  and  stopped  every- 
where. We  got  to  Chattanooga  at  night,  and 
found  the  snow  all  gone.  The  train  stopped 
in  the  woods  at  the  Crutchfield  (now  Read) 
House.  There  were  then,  perhaps,  not  a  dozen 
houses  from  the  Read  to  the  foot  of  Missionary 
Ridge.  We  had  neither  of  us  ever  been  to 
Chattanooga.  It  was  a  rambling  little  town 
of  possibly  less  than  two  thousand  inhabitants. 
Indeed,  it  had  but  lately  donned  its  big  Indian 
name,  Chattanooga  (Potato  House),  and  begun 
to  put  on  town  ways.  It  had  been  known  as 
"Ross'  Landing."  Here  Jack  Ross,  the  Cher- 
okee chief,  lived,  where  Rossville  is;  and  here 
supplies  of  all  sorts  came  down  the  river  to 
this  landing.  Salt  from  King's  Salt  Works, 
Saltville,  Va.,  on  the  head  of  Clinch  River, 
found  a  good  market  here.  We  called  it 
King's  salt  to  distinguish  it  from  a  coarser 
salt  we  called  Goose  Creek,  which  came  from 
Goose  Creek,  Ky.  Here  the  good  Indians  and 
the  mean  white  men,  who  were  always  poking 
themselves  in  among  them,  got  their  supplies 
in  the  thirties  and  before. 


155 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

Well,  it  was  Saturday  night  when  we  arrived. 
We  knew  but  two  families  in  the  town.  Mrs. 
John  W.  White  was  a  cousin  of  Mrs.  Sullins; 
Tom  Crutchfield,  proprietor  of  the  hotel,  and 
his  wife,  Amanda  King,  were  old  friends  of 
mine.  We  were  all  brought  up  in  McMinn 
County.  Tom  and  I  read  Caesar  together 
under  Pat.  Samuel  at  Forrest  Hill  Academy, 
and  hunted  rabbits  at  recess.  We  went  im- 
mediately to  his  hotel,  and  here  we  were  cor- 
dially received  and  comfortably  quartered. 
Very  tired  and  almost  sick,  wife  and  the  baby 
were  soon  asleep,  while  I  tried  to  get  myself 
together  and  think  of  what  I  should  say  to 
the  people  to-morrow.  This  was  almost  the 
first  really  quiet  hour  I  had  had  since  we  re- 
ceived our  appointment.  Those  three  weeks 
had  been  filled  with  turmoil  for  head,  heart, 
and  hand.  The  appointment  had  distressed 
me.  There  was  little  prospect  of  success  in 
the  new  railroad  town.  But  I  had  promised 
the  Lord  when  I  was  but  fifteen  years  old  that 
if  He  would  give  me  peace  of  mind  and  grace 
to  do  so,  I  would  be  a  preacher.  And  that 
meant  be  a  traveling  Methodist  preacher; 
I  never  thought  of  anything  else.  I  now  felt 
like  I  was  in  the  line  and  no  mistake.  I  had  a 
good  case  of  it  well  developed.  So  I  said, 
"Lord,  help  me;"  and  He  did.     More  anon. 

i56 


XIX 
TEAR  AT  CHATTANOOGA. 

HE  last  chapter  brought  us  to 
Chattanooga  Saturday  night. 
Sunday  morning  found  us  in 
the  Crutchfield  House,  strang- 
ers, looking  about  and  inquir- 
ing for  the  location  of  the  Methodist  church 
and  time  for  Sunday-school,  etc.  We  found 
the  church  up  on  what  is  called  High 
Street,  I  believe — where  the  colored  folks 
now  have  a  large  brick  church.  I  went  to 
Sunday-school  and  found  the  house  to  be  a 
small  wooden  structure,  with  a  pepper-box 
looking  affair  on  the  top.  The  bell  was  a 
spice  mortar  which  was  kept  in  the  wood- 
house.  This  the  sexton  pounded  with  his  pestle 
to  call  us  to  worship.  Mr.  P.  McMillin  was 
superintendent  and  class  leader.  He  gave 
us  a  cordial  welcome,  and  answered  my  many 
questions  concerning  the  work,  which  he  seem- 
ed to  have  both  on  his  head  and  heart.  A 
genuine  right-hand  man  for  the  new  preacher; 
knew  how  to  be  helpful  with  wise  counsel  and 


157 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

sympathy.  His  earnest  Christian  wife  was 
the  daughter  of  Robert  Cravens  and  niece  of 
the  late  Dr.  G.  E.  Cunnyngham.  This  ex- 
cellent family  came  right  up  to  us  and  put 
sunshine  into  that  first  Sunday  and  became 
our  stand-bys  throughout  the  year.  What 
a  treasure  such  a  family  is  for  the  preacher! 
Lord,  send  us  such  laymen  in  all  our  Churches! 
At  the  eleven  o'clock  hour  there  was  a  fair 
congregation  present.  Among  them  were  the 
Cravens,  the  Ragsdales  (William  and  Baxter), 
the  McMillins  (P.  and  D.  C),  the  Hodges, 
the  Van  Epps,  the  Parhams,  the  Crutchfields, 
the  Lyles,  and  others,  who  came  at  the  close 
of  the  services  and  gave  us  a  welcoming  hand- 
shake, which  made  us  feel  like  we  had  a  peo- 
ple. The  stewards  had  a  meeting  Monday, 
and  secured  board  for  us  with  John  W. 
White,  Esq.,  at  forty  dollars  per  month.  Mrs. 
White  was  cousin  to  Mrs.  Sullins.  They 
had  grown  up  together  at  Jonesboro.  Never 
mind  about  our  salary;  I  really  do  not  remem- 
ber. In  fact,  I  do  not  believe  the  question  of 
our  support  was  discussed  or  mentioned. 
We  had  no  assessment  plan  in  those  days. 
The  old  Methodist  rule  was  about  this:  The 
people  needed  a  preacher;  the  Church  sent 

158 


Seventy  Years  in  T)ixie 


them  one:  they  were  expected  to  take  care  of 
him,  and  he  was  expected  to  take  what  the 
people  furnished  him.  If  this  fell  short  of 
meeting  his  needs,  he  was  to  look  for  the 
deficit  when  he  got  to  heaven;  it  was  never 
made  up  here.  The  disciplinary  rule  of  one 
hundred  dollars  for  a  single  man  and  two 
hundred  dollars  for  a  married  one  was  about 
obsolete.  With  this  sort  of  tacit  under- 
standing— of  get  what  you  can  and  live  on  it — 
we  went  to  work. 

Rev.  E.  F.  Sevier  was  presiding  elder  and 
lived  in  the  town.  Perhaps  Holston  never 
had  a  more  cultured,  charming,  scholarly 
preacher.  His  clearness  in  statements  of 
doctrine  and  lawyer-like  probing  into  and 
treatment  of  his  text  were  more  intellectual 
than  emotional,  but  always  instructive  and 
pleasing.  His  rhetoric  was  almost  faultless, 
and  his  delivery  captivating.  He  was  princely 
in  person — straight  and  dignified,  with  traces 
of  his  ancestral  Huguenot  blood,  and  as  polite 
as  a  Frenchman.  He  was  akin  to  Nollichucky 
Jack,  the  gallant  leader  of  many  an  Indian 
fight,  and  no  whit  his  inferior.  Our  good 
Bishop  Hoss  is  a  younger  member  of  that  old 
game  stock. 


159 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

The  health  of  Mrs.  White  failed,  and  we 
had  to  look  for  new  quarters.  About  this 
time  Tom  Crutchfield  sent  me  word  (no 
telephones  then)  to  come  and  go  squirrel 
hunting  with  him.  This  I  gladly  did.  It 
seemed  like  old  times,  when  we  were  boys 
together.  When  we  were  ready  to  start, 
he  suggested  that  we  go  to  Missionary  Ridge 
for  fox  squirrels,  and  we  did  so.  That  day 
I  killed  on  the  top  of  the  Ridge,  a  little 
west  of  the  tunnel,  at  Sherman  Heights, 
the  last  fox  squirrel  I  ever  saw  in  the  woods. 
On  our  way  home,  the  hunt  over,  five  or  six 
nice,  fat  fellows  bagged  and  in  the  bottom  of 
the  buggy,  I  began  to  think  of  home  and  work. 
And  by  way  of  getting  his  help  to  find  a  board- 
ing house,  I  told  him  that  Mrs.  White  was  in 
feeble  health  and  we  had  to  move,  and  asked 
him  if  he  could  tell  us  where  we  could  find 
a  suitable  home.  He  thought  a  moment, 
and  then  said:  "Come  to  the  hotel.  We  will 
let  you  have  a  nice  suite  of  rooms,  and  you 
can  use  the  parlor  to  meet  your  friends." 
I  answered:  "That  would  be  delightful, 
but  the  stewards  will  not  pay  but  forty  dollars 
per  month  for  our  board — wife,  nurse,  baby, 
and  myself — and  that  is  far  below  the  price 

1 60 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


you  get  for  such  board."  He  simply  replied: 
"I  will  take  you  at  forty  per  month;  come  on." 
That  was  Tom's  big-hearted  way  of  doing 
generous  things.  When  we  got  to  the  hotel, 
we  told  his  wife  about  it.  She  was  pleased 
and  said:  "Tell  Mrs.  Sullins  to  come  at 
once;  her  rooms  will  be  ready."  This  we  did, 
and  occupied  a  suite  of  delightful  rooms. 
The  two  ladies  were  much  together,  and  Mrs. 
Crutchfield  often  drove  wife  to  return  calls 
and  make  special  visits  to  the  poor  and  sick. 
This  helped  them  both  religiously,  as  well 
as  socially  and  physically.  We  were  very 
comfortable;  but  the  year  was  getting  away, 
and  there  had  been  no  revival,  though  there 
were  many  sinners  around.  This  troubled  us. 
I  have  always  felt  that  something  is  wrong 
when  any  people  with  a  pastor  and  an  organ- 
ized church  at  his  back  can  spend  a  whole  year 
and  no  revival,  no  souls  saved.  I  think  so 
now.  Well,  there  were  three  regular  pastors 
in  town — Mr.  Bradshaw  (Presbyterian),  Mr. 
Templeton  (Cumberland),  and  myself.  There 
were  some  good  Baptists  and  a  few  Episco- 
palians, but  they  had  no  pastors.  So  we  three 
got  together  and  agreed  to  conduct  a  union  ser- 
vice.    We  were  to  spend  a  week  in  each  of  our 


161 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

churches,  beginning  with  Bradshaw's.  This 
we  thought  would  end  the  meeting;  but  it 
was  a  glorious  mistake;  for  the  "Lord  was  in 
that  place"  and  had  large  things  for  us.  We 
began  in  Bradshaw's  church,  which  stood  on 
the  east  side  of  Market  Street,  between  Seventh 
and  Eighth — the  site  long  since  occupied  by 
large  commercial  houses.  We  took  it  time 
about  in  preaching,  but  had  no  choir  or 
organ.  I  had  to  start  the  tunes  mostly  and 
carry  on  the  singing  till  the  spirit  moved  the 
people  to  sing.  By  Friday  night  the  people 
filled  the  house,  and  many  were  at  the  "mourn- 
er's bench"  and  several  converted.  Satur- 
day we  moved  to  my  church.  It  was  the  time 
of  my  third  quarterly  meeting.  Brother  Sevier, 
the  presiding  elder,  preached  in  the  morning, 
and  Brother  Templeton  at  night — a  great  day. 
We  were  all  to  have  regular  services  Sunday 
in  our  own  churches  in  the  morning  and  come 
together  for  the  night  services,  and  so  we  did. 
And  now  for  another  week  the  Lord  shook  the 
town,  and  sinners  cried  for  mercy  and  found 
it.  When  Saturday  came,  we  moved  to 
Brother  Templeton's  church.  The  meeting 
did  not  chill  going  from  one  church  to  another. 
In  fact,  the  whole  town  was  getting  religiously 

162 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


hot,  and  you  could  carry  a  revival  meeting 
anywhere  about  in  it.  Well,  we  stayed  that 
week,  with  glorious  results,  in  Templeton's 
church.  We  had  now  made  the  round  of  the 
churches,  as  we  agreed  to  do  at  the  beginning; 
but  such  was  the  state  of  religious  sentiment 
that  no  one  thought  of  closing  the  meeting. 
So  we  went  back  to  Brother  Bradshaw's 
church,  starting  on  the  second  round.  This, 
the  fourth  Sunday  night,  was  marked  by 
wonderful  spiritual  power.  There  was  an 
awe-inspiring  sense  of  the  divine  presence 
pervading  the  vast  assembly.  The  church 
was  rallying  everywhere  with  song  and  prayers 
and  exhortation,  and  sinners — old,  hardened 
sinners,  trembled  and  fell  down  before  God 
and  cried  for  mercy. 

The  meeting  could  now  "stand  alone," 
as  we  say — could  run  without  a  preacher. 
The  people  gathered  before  the  hour  of  service, 
not  to  gossip,  but  to  worship.  Brother  preach- 
er, you  have  been  along  there.  How  delight- 
ful it  was  as  you  hurried  on  to  the  church  to 
meet  a  great  burst  of  song  a  hundred  yards 
before  you  got  there!  No  one  had  been  re- 
quested to  open  or  lead  the  services,  and  yet 
the    congregation  was  worshipping,   and  the 


163 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

great  volume  of  music  told  you  that  all  were 
singing;  and  strong,  jubilant  voices,  unheard 
before,  told  you  that  new  converts  were  among 
the  singers— Saul  was  among  the  prophets. 
We  had  no  collection  of  songs  suited  to  revival 
work  then  as  we  have  now,  nor  were  our 
churches  supplied  with  hymn  books.  This 
was  not  perhaps  wholly  evil;  for  while  it  was  a 
drawback  in  one  direction,  it  worked  well 
in  another.  It  will  be  found  true — as  I  have 
had  occasion  again  and  again  to  note — that 
the  Spirit  uses  ten  or  a  dozen  out  of  the  great 
multitude  of  songs  to  do  service  through  a 
revival  of  weeks,  repeating  them  at  every 
hour.  Sometimes  just  one  song  takes  the 
lead  through  a  great  meeting;  it  may  be  an  old 
one  fallen  out  of  use  for  a  time.  I  remember 
having  been  called  from  Emory,  Va.,  twenty- 
five  years  ago  to  assist  good  Brother  B. 
W.  S.  Bishop  in  a  revival  at  Kelley's  Chapel. 
At  night  the  meeting  was  moving  at  a  fair 
gait  when  some  one  started  the  old  hymn, 
"When  I  Can  Read  my  Title  Clear/'  etc.; 
and  instantly  the  atmosphere  seemed  charged 
with  spiritual  power,  everybody  sang,  and 
many  wept  for  joy.  I  couldn't  understand 
it,   and   asked   later  what  it  meant.     "Why, 

164 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


the  revival  started  when  we  were  singing  that 
old  song,  and  we  have  repeated  it  at  every 
service  since."  A  great  variety  of  new  songs 
tends  to  divide  the  mind  of  the  worshipper 
rather  than  promote  devotion.  Fancy  singing 
is  fatal  to  any  revival.  Familiarity  with  the 
words  and  tunes  is  favorable  to  devout  sing- 
ing; the  mind  of  the  singer  can  then  be  given 
to  the  one  thing  of  "making  melody  in  the 
heart."  Well,  by  repeating,  the  people  became 
familiar  with  some  of  our  best  old  hymns — ■ 
words  and  tunes — and  they  all  sang  them  again 
and  again  with  full  hearts.  I  am  not  quite 
sure  but  that  this  may  in  a  measure  account  for 
the  fact  that  we  Methodists  were  called  a 
singing  people.  (Note  the  tense  of  that  verb 
"were.")  Our  experimental  religion  filled  our 
hearts  with  joy  and  gladness,  and  our  good 
old  hymns  gave  delightful  expression  to  those 
happy  feelings;  and  so  we  sang  them  lustily 
and  often,  book  or  no  book. 

In  this  way  the  children  and  most  illiterate, 
even  the  negroes,  learned  these  oft-repeated 
songs  and  made  the  welkin  ring  again  in  their 
great  meetings.  O  to  hear  and  feel  them  as 
I  have  heard  and  felt  them  in  many  a  revival, 
and  not  a  book  in  the  assembly!     Let's  all 


165 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

sing,  without  the  book,  to  the  old  tune  of 
Greenfield    (now    Nettleton) : 

"Come  thou  Fount  of  every  blessing, 
Tune  my  heart  to  sing  thy  grace ; 

Streams  of  mercy,  never  ceasing, 
Call  for  songs  of  loudest  praise." 


1 66 


XX 
GREAT  REVIVAL 


E  had  now  reached  the  fourth 
Monday  in  our  great  meeting. 
The  church  was  crowded  at  the 
morning  hour,  and  souls  con- 
verted. We  felt  that  God  had 
victory;  the  town  was  ready 
the  revival  had  the  right  of 
After  a  little  consultation 
to    move    up     and    sweep 


given  us  the 
to  surrender; 
way  everywhere, 
we  determined 
the  field  and  demand  an  unconditional 
surrender  to  God's  cause.  So  we  requested 
that  every  house  of  business  of  every  kind 
be  closed  for  the  next  day,  and  that  the  people 
spend  the  day  worshipping  God.  This  met 
universal  approval.  All  houses  closed,  not 
simply  for  the  usual  hour  of  worship,  but  shut 
up,  like  Sunday,  all  day  long.  Many  of  the 
business  men  fasted,  did  not  go  to  their  places 
of  business  at  all,  and  spent  the  day  in  church 
mostly. 

An   incident   will   show   how   sacredly   the 
people    observed    that    day:     Uncle    Antipas 


167 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

Moore,  who  lived  on  Missionary  Ridge,  was 
in  the  habit  of  furnishing  beef  to  the  town  on 
Tuesdays.  So  this  morning,  as  usual,  he 
came  in  with  his  beef;  but  finding  no  house 
open  and  no  one  on  the  streets,  he  drove  on 
down  Market  Street  nearly  to  the  river  and 
turned  back,  not  knowing  what  it  all  meant 
till  a  friend  told  him.  Then  he  left  for  home. 
A  neighbor  met  him,  and  inquired:  "What  is 
up,  Uncle  Antipas?,,  "Well/'  said  the  old 
man,  in  no  very  pleasant  mood  in  view  of 
losing  his  meat,  "that  town  has  gone  crazy; 
there  is  not  a  house  open;  nobody  will  talk 
to  you  about  business;  it's  just  like  Sunday 
clean  down  to  the  river — I  drove  all  the  way 
down.  Just  as  well  take  your  taters  back; 
you  can't  sell  anything  to-day."  Antipas 
Moore  was  the  father  of  the  brave  Colonel  B. 
F.  Moore,  of  the  Nineteenth  Tennessee  Regi- 
ment, who  fell  in  the  battle  of  Missionary 
Ridge  fighting  around  his  old  home.  Well, 
that  Tuesday  was  a  red-letter  day  in  the 
revival,  and  has  been  such  in  the  religious 
life  of  Chattanooga  for  fifty  years  now.  It  is 
marked  on  some  of  the  old  business  books 
of  that  day  in  the  town:  "The  Tuesday- 
Sunday."     There  were  thirty-four  conversions 

168 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


that  day — many  in  the  church,  some  in  the 
homes,  and  some  on  the  streets.  Among 
them  was  the  now  sainted  Rev.  J.  L.  M. 
French,  who  for  thirty-two  years  cultivated 
many  fields  in  Holston,  and  then  laid  down 
his  tools  and  went  home,  fifteen  years  ago. 
I  was  by  his  side  with  my  hand  on  his  head 
when  the  Glory  broke  in.  He  was  a  superior 
preacher,  and  a  sweeter,  better  pastor  no 
people  ever  had.  He  was  the  father  of  the 
Rev.  Dr.  J.  Stewart  French,  of  Atlanta, 
Ga.— "a  chip  off  the  old  block." 

We  had  taken  high  ground  now  in  the  re- 
vival, and  were  aggressive.  Just  at  this  stage 
of  the  meeting  there  occurred  what  will  be 
found  to  be  almost  universally  true;  that  when- 
ever any  great  religious  or  moral  movement 
comes  aggressively  into  any  community,  then 
the  devil  bestirs  himself  and  rallies  all  his  forces 
and  uses  all  means  and  methods  to  oppose  it. 
And  mark  you,  he  always  covers  his  real 
design  under  the  semblance  of  some  good; 
never  attacks  openly  or  at  a  strong  point. 
Just  as  it  was  when  "Jesus  was  led  up  into 
the  wilderness/'  After  his  forty  days'  fast, 
he  was  hungry;  then  to  the  hungry  Man  the 
tempter  came,  and  in  the  most  simple  man- 


169 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

ner  possible  innocently  suggested  bread,  na- 
ture's remedy  for  hunger,  to  which  all  hungry 
men  have  an  unquestioned  right;  you  need 
bread  and  ought  to  have  bread;  it  is  the  di- 
vinely appointed  duty  of  all  men  to  provide 
bread  for  themselves  against  the  days  of  hunger 
and  so  you  should,  if  need  be,  even  "command 
those  stones  to  be  bread. "  It  was  bread, 
you  see,  good  bread,  innocent  bread,  that 
never  hurts  any  man,  that  the  tempter  kept 
before  the  hungry  eyes  of  the  hungry  Man, 
purposely  concealing  all  the  while  the  devilish 
design  of  leading  the  Master  into  a  great  sin. 
And,  again,  as  was  the  case  of  the  adulter- 
ous woman  whom  they  brought  to  Jesus, 
ostensibly  desiring  him  to  condemn  a  great 
sin,  the  which  he  was  forward  to  do;  whereas 
their  real  object  was  to  get  him  to  pronounce 
sentence,  as  a  civil  officer,  against  an  individual 
sinner,  "that  they  might  have  whereof  to  accuse 
him."  And  to  encourage  him  to  walk  into 
their  net,  they  quote  Scripture:  "Now  Moses 
commanded  us  to  stone  such.  What  sayest 
thou  ?  Of  course  you  will  say  so  too."  One 
can  hardly  say,  as  he  reads  the  story,  which 
moves  him  most,  the  calmness  of  the  Man  under 
the  cross-fire  as  he  quietly  writes  in  the  sand, 


170 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


"as  though  he  did  not  hear  them/'  or  the 
villainous  craft  and  hypocrisy  of  his  enemies. 
The  trap  was  well  set,  calculated  to  "deceive 
the  very  elect."  But  Jesus  had  met  the  de- 
ceiver before  in  their  bout  in  the  wilderness,  and 
knew  his  wily  ways.  His  answer  was  a  bomb- 
shell among  them,  "He  that  is  without  sin 
among  you,  let  him  first  cast  a  stone  at  her;" 
as  much  as  to  say:  "You  want  sin  con- 
demned; look  at  home,  and  you  may  find 
something  to  do  there."  This  turned  their 
thoughts  from  their  evil  purpose  of  entrapping 
him  to  their  personal  sins.  "And  being  con- 
victed by  their  own  conscience,  they  went  out 
one  by  one."  Amen.  He  who  reads  his 
Bible  will  not  fail  to  see  that  this  designing  of 
evil  under  the  appearance  of  good  is  a  favorite 
device  of  Satan.  There  is  nothing  hardly  so 
utterly  bad  but  that  something  commendable 
may  be  found  in  it.  To  cry  up  that  good 
and  thereby  conceal  the  evil  in  any  action 
has  the  very  essence  of  the  enemy's  trick  in 
it.  See  how  this  works  in  the  great  temper- 
ance movement  of  to-day,  February  14,  1908. 
Distillers  and  saloonists,  and  indeed  every- 
body knows  there  is  great  money  in  the 
whisky   business.     The    Federal   government 


171 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

(Congress)  has  found  that  out.  And  the 
revenue  from  the  dirty  business  is  the  only 
thing  they  talk  about — money  for  public 
schools,  corporation  expenses,  taxes,  etc.  And, 
O,  the  sweet  speeches  they  make  for  the  dear 
children  in  Dixie  and  the  dear  people  who 
have  to  pay  the  taxes,  etc.!  But  never  a  word 
about  the  wretchedness  unutterable  that  does 
and  must  follow.  To  ask  for  a  license  is  to 
ask  for  the  privilege  to  make  drunkards  in 
all  our  homes.  But  this  is  kept  in  the  back- 
ground, never  mentioned.  There  is  revenue 
in  it.  Old  Cloven  Foot  still  at  his  old  tricks. 
From  all  such  may  the  good  Lord  deliver  us! 
It  is  safe  to  say  that  there  is  not  an  honest, 
thoughtful  man  in  any  corporation  or  state 
who  does  not  know  that  the  cost  of  crime  legiti- 
mately traceable  to  alcohol  far  surpasses  the 
revenue  derived  from  the  license  system. 
And  this  is  true,  to  say  nothing  of  the  unutter- 
able ruin  to  the  individual  drinker,  soul  and 
body,  and  to  the  family  in  all  that  makes  the 
home  happy,  and  also  to  the  peace  and  good 
order  of  society.  To  make  drunkards  is  es- 
sential to  the  whisky  business.  If  men  do  not 
drink,  then  the  saloon  and  distillery  are  out  of 
business.     This  was  announced  by  one  of  the 


172 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


speakers  in  a  sort  of  love  feast  held  by  the 
"State  Liquor  Dealers"  in  Ohio.  He  was 
speaking  on  the  question,  "How  to  Build  Up 
the  Saloon  Business/'  and  said:  "The  success 
of  our  business  is  dependent  largely  upon  the 

creation  of  appetite  for  drink The 

open  field  for  the  creation  of  appetite  is  among 
boys.  It  will  be  needful,  therefore,  that  we  do 
missionary  work  among  the  boys;  and  I  make 
the  suggestion  gentlemen,  that  nickels  spent  in 
treating  boys  now  will  return  in  dollars  to 
your  tills  after  the  appetite  has  been  formed. 
Above  all  things,  create  appetite."  There  is 
the  big  toe  of  Cloven  Foot.  Such  a  fiendish 
speech  as  that  ought  to  drive  every  saloon  and 
distillery  out  of  the  land.  May  a  merciful 
God  save  our  boys! 

But  these  are  reflections  and  not  recollec- 
tions. And  so  I  dismiss  them  to  return  to  our 
revival,  which  was  sorely  threatened  by  this 
Satanic  trick.     See  next  chapter. 


l73 


XXI 


CHATTANOOGA  REVIVAL 
CONTINUED 

UST  at  this  time,  when  the  meet- 
ing was  moving  gloriously,  the 
enemy  rallied  his  forces  to 
break  us  down.  And  if  you 
read  on,  you  will  see  how  devil- 
ish and  dangerous  was  the  attack — dangerous 
because  it  had  all  the  appearance  of  being 
innocent  under  the  well-concealed  design  of 
evil,  the  old  Satanic  trick.  Here  is  the  case: 
Several  judicious  friends  came  to  us  (the 
preachers),  saying  that  the  meeting  was  being 
greatly  crippled,  and  they  feared  for  the  re- 
sults. Two  lewd  women  of  the  town,  had 
been  coming,  in  the  "after  services,"  for  two 
or  three  nights,  and  had  crowded  into  the 
seats  designated  for  penitents,  and  by  their 
coarse  and  immodest  conduct  had  disturbed 
all  about  them.  They,  we  were  told,  were 
notoriously  vile,  and  it  was  believed  that  they 
were  the  cat's-paw  of  some  bad  men  of  the 
town  to  disgrace  the  meeting  by  their  brazen 
deviltry.     Here  was  a  serious  trouble,  and  to 


174 


Seventy  Years  in  T)ixie 


deal  effectively  with  it  a  delicate  matter — 
it  might  prove  a  boomerang.  These  women 
were  sinners,  no  doubt  of  that,  and  we  were 
telling  the  people  that  Jesus  died  for  sin- 
ners and  would  save  them  if  they  would 
repent  and  accept  Christ;  and  these  two  had, 
upon  our  general  invitation,  come  to  the  seats 
for  instruction  and  prayer.  This  was  all 
regular  and  ostensibly  very  innocent  and 
right.  But  there  was  evidently  a  "cat  in  the 
meal."  Their  conduct  did  not  comport  with 
the  character  they  assumed;  they  were  not 
humble  and  contrite  before  God,  but  brazen 
and  impudent.  Our  best  women  and  men 
believed  they  were  emissaries  of  Satan  to 
disgrace  our  services  and  ruin  the  meeting  if 
possible.  Well,  the  foul  thing  was  on  our 
hands  and  must  be  dealt  with,  and  the  dis- 
agreeable task  fell  to  me.  We  all  knew  that 
the  moment  we  took  hold  to  correct  it  the 
enemies  would  raise  the  cry  of  hypocrisy 
and  say:  "Yes,  you  have  a  salvation  for  the 
rich  and  well-dressed,  but  a  poor,  ruined 
woman  you  have  nothing  but  a  kick  and  a 
curse."  Deplorable  as  this  issue  would  be, 
it  must  be  met,  or  the  meeting  ruined.  So 
that  night  before  we  called  for  mourners  I 


175 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

told  the  audience  just  what  we  had  heard, 
and  deplored  the  necessity  forced  upon  us 
to  deal  with  such  a  delicate  question.  These 
women  knew  that  they  had  made  a  great 
breach  between  themselves  and  good  society, 
and  that  their  brazen  conduct  was  hurtful 
here.  And  then  I  said  to  them:  "If  you  are 
really  penitent,  you  will  not  force  yourselves  in 
here  to  the  hurt  of  others,  but  will  humbly  go  to 
our  good  women,  who  will  gladly  sympathize 
with  you  and  instruct  you  and  pray  for  you." 
We  therefore  begged  them  to  take  this  better 
way;  but  assured  them  that  if  they  persisted 
in  disturbing  the  exercises  as  they  had  been 
doing  we  would  be  compelled  to  take  further 
steps  to  correct  the  evil. 

Well,  they  did  not  come  that  night;  but 
two  nights  later  they  were  right  in  the  midst  of 
perhaps  fifty  penitents,  with  their  bold,  inso- 
lent deportment,  attracting  attention,  and  in 
other  ways  creating  confusion.  The  much 
dreaded  crisis  had  come — a  defiant  challenge — 
and  by  the  grace  of  God  I  determined  to  meet 
it,  let  come  what  might.  So  I  worked  my  way 
in  among  the  mourners  and  took  the  two 
women,  who  were  side  by  side,  each  by  the 
arm(maybe  a  little  rudely,  I  don't  know),  and 

176 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


said:  "Come  with  me."  I  brought  them 
out  into  the  aisle  and  took  them  to  the  last  seat 
in  the  house  and  deposited  them.  A  pretty 
high-handed  move,  you  say.  True,  it  was 
drastic  treatment;  but  the  case  was  acute,  and 
required  it.  And,  it  worked  like  a  charm — 
ended  the  trouble — while  the  religious  senti- 
ment of  the  public  heartily  approved  the  act, 
and  God  carried  on  his  work  gloriously. 
Amen.  A  word  more  here.  Lest  some  young 
preacher,  who  has  no  more  sense  than  I  had 
then,  may  erroneously  conclude  that  this  is  the 
right  way  to  manage  such  a  trouble,  let  me  say: 
If  such  a  thing  should  come  up  in  a  meeting  of 
mine  to-day,  I  would  take  a  different  course. 
I  would  try  this:  Get  some  good,  sensible, 
pious  women  to  take  the  case  off  my  hands, 
and  go  in  a  body  to  the  poor  wretches,  and  talk 
and  pray  with  them  and  beg  them  to  a  better 
course.  In  nine  cases  out  of  ten  that  will 
succeed. 

We  had  not  opened  the  church  for  members 
during  the  five  weeks;  our  work  was  to  get 
men  saved.  So  when  we  closed,  the  announce- 
ment was  made  that  each  of  our  churches 
would  be  opened  next  Sunday  and  an  oppor- 
tunity given   to  join   the   church.  This   was 


177 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

done,  and  I  had  the  pleasure  of  receiving 
forty-seven  members,  seven  of  them  heads  of 
families.  Others  came  later.  The  other 
churches  shared  liberally  in  the  increase  of 
members.  A  most  glorious  revival;  and,  as  is 
always  the  case,  it  settled  all  questions,  reared 
family  altars,  boomed  the  Sunday-school, 
filled  the  church  at  every  service  with  devout 
worshippers,  and  even  made  finances  easy. 
A  revival  is  the  king  cure-all. 

Soon  after  the  close  of  the  meeting  wife  and  I 
were  requested  to  meet  some  friends  at  the 
home  of  Col.  J.  L.  M.  French,  who  lived 
right  where  the  courthouse  now  stands.  This 
we  did,  and  found  the  object  was,  in  the  name 
of  many  friends,  to  present  us  a  purse  con- 
taining one  hundred  and  eighty  dollars.  And 
good  Tom  Crutchfield  almost  embarrassed 
us  by  bringing  the  one  hundred  and  twenty 
dollars  which  the  stewards  paid  him  quarterly 
for  our  board  and  giving  it  to  my  wife.  I  re- 
fused to  take  it.  Yes  I  did;  you  need  not 
shake  your  head!  Conference  was  coming  to 
Chattanooga  that  fall  (1858),  and  we  were 
ready  for  it. 

And  now  I  thought  I  could  begin  to  see  why 
the  Lord  had  broken  up  our  cherished  plans 

178 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


at  Jonesboro,  and  thrust  us  out,  painfully, 
from  home  and  friends  into  a  hard,  unpromis- 
ing field.  It  seemed  all  wrong  and  "for  evil" 
to  us  then;  but  He  meant  it  "for  good." 
And  so  it  turned  out.  This  lesson  I  learned: 
That  the  appointment  which  demands  the 
greatest  amount  of  self-denial  and  hard  work 
is  often  the  best  in  the  end.  This  is  Methodist- 
preacher  experience. 

Among  the  other  well  remembered  things 
that  took  place  during  the  year  was  the  com- 
pletion of  the  railroad  between  Limestone  and 
Bull's  Gap.  The  East  Tennessee  and  Georgia 
road  going  east  and  the  Virginia  and  Tennessee 
going  west  met  at  Midway.  The  last  spike 
was  to  be  driven  by  the  President,  Dr. 
Cunningham,  of  Jonesboro,  on  a  given  day. 
It  was  to  be  a  great  day;  everybody  was  to 
be  there.  The  roads  made  liberal  provisions 
for  passengers.  This  gave  a  through  line  to 
Jonesboro.  Mr.  Blair,  wife's  father,  who 
was  one  of  the  directors,  wrote  her  to  come  up 
on  that  day  and  see  her  old  Jonesboro  friends 
and  go  on  home  with  him.  This  she  did,  taking 
nurse  and  the  baby,  who  was  "getting  a  big 
boy  then."  A  great  day  for  her  and  home 
folks!     This  left  me  alone,  but  only  a  day  or 


179 


, 

Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

two,  for  my  old  friend,  Robert  Cravens, 
mentioned  elsewhere,  who  lived  right  under 
the  bluff  on  the  point  of  Lookout,  came  down 
and  invited  me  up  to  spend  the  heated  season 
with  him.  There  was  no  other  house  on  the 
mountain  then.  Of  course,  I  went.  We 
walked  the  near  way,  and,  passing  the  mouth 
of  Chattanooga  Creek,  which  he  owned  and 
where  he  had  a  net  set  for  fish,  we  stopped  to 
get  fish  for  dinner.  He  raised  the  net,  in 
which  there  were  perhaps  a  dozen  good  fish, 
and  I  began  to  grab  for  them.  He  said:  "Hold 
on;  get  that  salmon  there;  he  will  be  enough  for 
us  to  carry  up  the  mountain."  I  managed  to 
capture  him,  a  fine  fellow  sixteen  or  eighteen 
inches  long.  Then  he  let  the  net  down  again. 
The  fish  kept  better  there  than  up  at  the  house. 
I  sometimes  took  my  book  and  climbed  up  the 
bluff  in  the  morning  to  read  and  make  sermons. 
And  you  who  know  the  place  almost  envy  me 
the  privilege.  Well,  it  was  delightful;  but  it 
was  the  poorest  place  I  ever  tried  for  reading 
or  making  sermons.  Too  many  things  to  look 
at.  That  long  sweep  of  river  around  "Mocca- 
sin Bend;"  the  numerous  railroads,  with  their 
snaky  looking  trains  running  in  and  out  around 
the  foot  of  the  mountain;  the  town  huddled  up 

180 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


about  the  foot  of  Cameron  Hill;  the  mountain 
stretching  for  many  miles  on  all  sides;  the  old 
Cumberland  on  the  north  and  west,  heaved  like 
a  troubled  sea,  stretching  far  away  to  the  Ken- 
tucky line;  on  the  south  and  east  the  Great 
Smokies  piled  up  all  the  way  back  to  the  Blue 
Ridge,  with  its  many  spurs,  with  pretty  Indian 
names,  Chilhowie,  Unaka,  etc.,  and  far  in  the 
distance  big  Nantahalah,  in  North  Carolina, 
lifting  his  crest  of  hemlocks,  like  Saul,  a  head 
and  shoulders  higher  than  the  rest;  just  at  your 
feet  the  noisy  crows  and  lazy  buzzard  floating 
slowly  as  if  smelling  out  some  prey,  and  whip- 
ping right  over  your  head  a  cruel  hawk,  "with 
his  butcher's  white  apron  stained  with  blood;" 
the  landscape  all  around  covered  with  farms, 
and  from  yonder  cottage  the  blue  smoke 
curling  upward,  which  says,  "Dinner  is  getting 
here  for  husband,  who  is  plowing  in  that  field 
over  there ;"  and  away  off  yonder  a  cloud 
carrying  a  ship's  load  of  water  to  the  farmer's 
fields — all  this  and  a  thousand  other  grand 
and  beautiful  things  invite  and  feast  your  eyes, 
until  you  look  down  to  the  cottage,  and  Sister 
Cravens  has  hung  the  towel  on  the  railing  of 
the  back  porch.  Dinner  is  ready,  and  nothing 
done  on  the  bluff.     But  enough  of  this. 


181 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

Now,  Mr.  Editor,  this  is  a  long  account  of 
our  year  at  Chattanooga.  It  reminds  me  of 
my  boyhood.  Mother  used  to  give  me  a  lump 
of  sugar  when  I  was  a  good  boy,  which  some- 
times happened.  I  could  have  taken  it  all 
at  one  mouthful,  but  I  didn't.  I  would  lick 
it  a  little  while,  and  then  put  it  in  my  pocket  a 
bit,  and  then  take  it  out  and  nibble  some  more; 
by  repeating  this  process  a  half  dozen  times 
I  made  it  last  longer,  because  it  was  sweet  and 
I  liked  the  taste  of  it.  And  so  our  good 
Heavenly  Father  gave  us  this  delightful  year, 
and  I  love  to  linger  on  the  recollections  of  it; 
they  are  a  joy  forever.  And  more :  that  revival 
in  the  three  churches  had  much  to  do  in  laying 
the  foundation  of  the  greater  Chattanooga  of 
to-day.  But  a  sad  thought  comes  up  here. 
Nearly  all  who  took  part  in  that  meeting  are 
gone;  some  of  their  children  and  grand- 
children are  still  there.  My  two  associates, 
Brothers  Bradshaw  and  Templeton,  have 
been  in  heaven  many  years.  I  do  not  know 
that  Bradshaw  had  any  children;  but  Temple- 
ton  had  some  little  boys,  one  of  whom  at  least 
remains — Hon.  Jerome  Templeton,  of  Knox- 
ville,  a  worthy  son  of  a  noble  sire.  God  bless 
him! 


182 


XXII 

TEAR  1858-59 

ONFERENCE  met  this  year 
(1858)  at|Chattanooga.  Bishop 
Andrew  presided  and  J.  N.  S. 
Huffaker  was  secretary.  I  was 
Conference  host,  and  do  not 
recollect  much  about  the  session  save  that  I 
was  very  busy  looking  after  outside  matters 
pertaining  to  the  comfort  of  the  preachers 
and  their  wives.  Our  appointment  was  to 
Knoxville.  I  did  not  say  Church  Street; 
that  was  not  necessary,  as  we  had  no  other 
church  in  the  town,  except  a  little  mission 
over  about  old  Methodist  Hill.  We  spent  only 
a  part  of  the  year  here ;  for  Martha  Washington 
College  wanted  an  agent  to  raise  money  for  her, 
and  wanted  the  Knoxville  preacher  to  do 
that  work.  E.  C.  Wexler  was  stationed  at 
Abingdon  that  year.  The  friends  of  the 
college  got  the  presiding  elders  to  exchange 
the  preachers,  as  they  thought  I  would  make 
a  better  agent  than  Wexler.  And  so  it  was 
done.     I    did    some    work    as    agent,    raised 


183 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

a  few  hundred  dollars,  and  preached  some  in 
the  station.  The  year's  work  was  so  broken 
up  that  not  much  was  done  at  Abingdon. 
But  Knoxville  did  well.  Wexler,  who  was  my 
Conference  classmate,  was  one  of  the  best  men 
and  the  very  best  preacher  of  his  age  and 
opportunities  that  I  have  ever  heard.  Physi- 
cally he  was  a  rough  Dutchman,  with  a  rather 
robust  body  which  had  been  developed  in  his 
father's  blacksmith  shop  in  Sullivan  County. 
He  had  large  hands  and  feet,  which  semed  to 
be  in  his  way,  and  a  large  head  and  heart, 
both  baptized  with  the  Holy  Ghost  and  with  fire. 
He  was  a  systematic,  close  student,  much  given 
to  prayer.  A  text  became  luminous  as  he 
opened  it  up  and  held  it  before  the  audience. 
He  was  very  modest  and  even  timid,  which 
made  him  awkward  often,  especially  in  the 
society  of  ladies;  but  after  his  first  five  minutes 
in  the  pulpit  he  was  absolutely  graceful, 
and  soon  glowed  like  a  furnace.  Altogether 
he  was  more  like  Bishop  Kavanaugh  than 
any  other  preacher  I  have  known.  Dear 
fellow!  When  the  war  drove  us  out  of  Ten- 
nessee, he  drifted  south  into  Georgia  and  I  east 
into  Virginia.  I  never  met  him  again,  but  I 
hope  to  later. 

184 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


In  1859  the  Conference  met  at  Abingdon, 
Bishop  Early  in  the  chair  and  J.  N.  S.  Huff- 
aker,  secretary.  Our  second  son  was  born 
just  before  this  Conference,  and  wife  "went 
not  up;  for  she  said  unto  her  husband,  I  will 
not  go  up  until  the  child  be  weaned,  and  then  I 
will  bring  him."  This  year  fell  two  of  our 
brethren,  Thomas  Stringfield  and  Charles 
Mitchell.  Brother  Mitchell  had  been  with  us 
only  seven  years;  but  Mr.  Stringfield  belonged 
to  our  Methodist  history  before  the  organiza- 
tion of  the  Holston  Conference,  in  1824. 
He  belonged  to  the  pioneer  days,  and  while 
we  were  yet  a  part  of  the  Western  Confer- 
ence (1823)  ne  was  tne  presiding  elder  of  the 
Knoxville  district.  He  was  the  editor  of  our 
first  Methodist  paper,  and  the  promoter  of  many 
enterprises  for  the  betterment  of  the  social  and 
religious  life  of  the  people.  He  "commanded 
his  household  after  him,"  so  that  for  seventy- 
five  years  his  children  and  grandchildren  have 
been  prominent  in  all  that  builds  and  betters 
human  life. 

From  this  Conference  we  were  returned  to 
Knoxville.  Here  we  had  a  delightful  year. 
The  old  church  stood  where  our  present 
commodious  house  now  stands.     It  was  old- 


185 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

style  in  architecture,  with  a  gallery  in  the  back 
end.  Here  a  few  leading  singers  sat,  and 
George  Jackson  led  them,  sometimes  using 
his  flute  to  get  the  proper  pitch.  Here  was  a 
fine  type  of  substantial  Methodists,  the  ances- 
tors and  exemplars  of  the  present  beloved 
Church  Street  congregation.  Brethren  of  old 
Church  Street,  your  fathers  were  a  little  more 
religiously  demonstrative  than  you  are.  I 
commend  you  not  for  the  difference,  the  loss  of 
that  feature  of  family  likeness. 

Among  this  people  were  three  local  preachers? 
all  of  whom  had  been  traveling  preachers  in 
the  Holston  Conference — Isaac  Lewis,  W.  G. 
Brownlow,  and  C.  W.  Charlton.  Isaac  Lewis 
was  feeble  from  age,  but  still  full  of  the  sweet 
spirit  of  the  Master  and  a  wise,  ready  counselor 
for  a  young  man.  Some  of  his^  children  and 
grandchildren  are  still  there.  William  G. 
Brownlow  was  the  editor  of  Brownlow' s 
Whig,  wide-awake,  a  great  reader  of  current 
literature,  familiar  with  the  live  topics  of  the 
day,  a  Whig  in  politics,  neutral  in  nothing, 
a  positive  man  with  well-defined  ideas,  a 
ready  speaker  and  popular  preacher.  His 
widow,  well  up  in  years — about  ninety,  I 
guess — is  still  living  in  the  city  and  in  the  old 

186 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


home.  She  is  perhaps  the  only  living  member 
who  was  old  enough  to  take  an  active  part  in 
church  work  then — a  much-honored  relic  of  the 
sunny  days  of  the  fifties.  May  the  peace  of 
God  that  passes  all  understanding  keep  the 
mind  and  heart  of  this  dear  child  of  His, 
through  Jesus  Christ  our  Lord.  C.  W. 
Charlton  was  much  the  younger  of  the  three, 
strong  and  fearless,  always  thoughtful,  a 
good  preacher  and  one  of  the  best  friends  a 
pastor  ever  had. 

We  had  some  very  gracious  meetings  during 
the  year,  but  the  most  memorable  occasion 
was  the  camp  meeting  at  old  Fountain  Head 
(now  Fountain  City).  This  meeting  was 
largely  supported  and  carried  on  by  my  people 
from  Knoxville.  Here  we  rallied  with  some 
of  our  country  neighbors,  and  had  a  glorious 
season  of  refreshing  from  the  presence  of  the 
Lord.  The  shed  stood  inside  of  the  present 
inclosure,  about  half  way  from  the  car  plat- 
form to  the  spring  at  the  foot  of  the  hill; 
the  tents  occupied  the  level  plat  around  the 
shed.  Here  for  many  years  the  people  from 
the  town  and  country  around  were  accustomed 
annually  to  gather  for  their  religious  feast. 
How  delightful  and  profitable  with  all  were 


i87 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

those  weeks  of  religious  and  social  enjoyment! 
This  was  in  the  fall  of  1859,  and  was  the  last 
camp  meeting  held  there;  and  of  those  present 
then  many  never  attended  another.  The  war 
came,  and  our  camp  meetings  went  with  the 
loss  of  well  nigh  all  else  of  material  good. 
As  I  try  to  recall  the  scenes  and  occurences  of 
that  year  in  Knoxville,  my  heart  grows  sad; 
for  the  dear  men  and  women  who  constituted 
my  congregation,  only  one  or  two  remain. 
Of  the  young  men  just  grown  up  then,  I  meet 
some  on  the  streets,  gray-haired ;  among  them 
are  William  A.  Henderson,  John  B.  Boyd, 
William  Rule,  N.  S.  Woodward,  the  elder 
Parham,  etc.  Of  the  boys,  there  are  S.  B. 
and  J.  C.  Luttrell,  John  Brownlow,  Sam. 
Boyd,  Sam.  Crawford,  C.  B.  Atkins,  Leon 
Jeroulman,  James  and  William  Lyons,  Henry 
Ault,  and  some  others,  no  doubt,  not  recalled 
at  this  writing  after  the  lapse  of  fifty  years. 
I  write  only  of  those  who  were  connected  with 
my  Sunday-school  and  congregation.  What 
a  host  of  well-remembered  faces  have  passed 
before  me  as  I  have  written  these  recollections 
and  have  gone  up  and  down  the  streets  as 
they  were  then!  Knoxville  then  was  on  Main 
and  Cumberland   Streets.      The  East  Ten- 

188  „aj 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


nessee,  Virginia,  and  Georgia  Railroad  had  a 
little  shack  of  a  depot  out  at  the  end  of  Gay. 
All  north  Knoxville  was  good  hunting  ground 
for  birds  and  rabbits.     I  know,  for  I  tried  it. 

In  i860  the  Conference  met  at  Asheville, 
N.  C.  Two  of  our  Holston  districts  were  in 
North  Carolina  then.  Bishop  Paine  presided, 
and  I  was  secretary — a  business  to  which  I 
was  little  suited  and  for  which  I  had  no  taste. 
I  had  been  stationed  there  nine  years  before, 
in  the  second  year  of  my  ministry.  How 
the  town  had  grown  in  those  years!  Wife 
and  I  had  a  home  with  my  old  friend,  Ed 
Aston,  and  his  good  wife,  Delia  Gilliland. 
I  met  Ed  some  ten  years  before  this  as  I  was  on 
my  way,  a  schoolboy,  to  Emory  and  Henry 
College.  I  did  not  travel  on  Sunday,  and 
stopped  off  at  Rogersville,  Tenn.,  his  home, 
to  spend  the  day.  I  went  to  the  Methodist 
Sunday-school;  and  Ed,  seeing  a  stranger 
present,  came  and  ferreted  me  out  and  asked 
me  to  dinner  with  him.  His  sister,  Mary, 
presented  me  a  laundry  pincushion  with  a 
nice  little  note,  which  I  still  have  here  in  a 
drawer  of  souvenirs.  She  afterwards  became 
the  wife  of  our  Daniel  Carter,  of  Holston  for 
many  years. 


189 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

Well,  big-souled  Ed  Aston  was  long 
a  controlling  factor  in  affairs  of  the  growing 
city,  and  his  wife  was  a  jewel  worthy  to  grace 
the  crown  of  any  king.  After  an  absence  of 
eight  years,  I  still  found  many  familiar  faces 
and  had  many  a  hearty  handshake.  The 
Woodfins,  the  Rankins,  the  Reynoldses,  the 
McDowells,  the  Smiths,  the  Beards,  the 
Atkinses,  the  Hilliards,  the  Sluders,  the 
Robertses,  the  Johnsons,  and  the  Vances 
were  still  here.  It  was  a  delightful  sojourn 
among  old  friends,  never  to  be  forgotten. 

Our  appointment  from  this  Conference 
was  to  the  Blountville  Circuit.  This  gave  us 
a  pleasing  variety  and  a  fine  field  for  work. 
Here  we  had  a  parsonage  and  for  the  first 
time  tried  our  hand  at  housekeeping.  What 
a  satisfaction  it  was  to  have  our  own  things, 
arrange  them  as  we  liked,  to  cook  what  we 
wanted  and  as  we  wanted  it  and  when  ! 
I  shall  never  forget  the  first  time  we  tried  to 
make  light  bread.  I  brought  all  the  chemistry 
I  knew  to  the  work,  and  wife  what  she  had  learn- 
ed from  Aunt  Tildy,  the  cook  at  home;  and  we 
made  the  bread.  Well,  we  ate  it;  but  to  be 
frank  about  it,  I  had  eaten  better  bread. 
However,  wife  never  gave  it  up  till  she  could 


190 


Seventy  Years  in  T)ixie 


beat  the  best  Virginia  cook  making  light 
bread.  Mr.  James  H.  Dosser,  a  friend  from 
Jonesboro,  gave  me  a  good  horse,  saddle, 
and  bridle,  which  he  said  I  could  have  for 
the  horse's  keep.  This  set  me  up  for  circuit 
riding.  All  moved  well  for  a  while,  but  if 
you  will  look  at  the  date  you  will  see  that  we 
were  in  the  fall  of  i860  and  spring  of  1861. 
By  far  the  greater  part  of  those  who  may  care 
to  read  these  recollections  have  no  personal 
knowledge  of  the  stirring  times  we  were  in. 
But,  stirring  times  they  were.  The  dark 
cloud  of  war  which  had  been  gathering  for 
a  quarter  of  a  century  now  filled  all  the 
horizon;  and  its  thunder,  which  jarred 
the  nation  for  five  dreadful  years,  could  be 
heard  muttering  at  no  great  distance.  I  am 
writing  recollections,  and  shall  say  nothing 
here  of  the  long  line  of  political  and  social 
conditions  which  led  up  to  the  painful  necessity 
on  the  part  of  the  Southern  people  to  either 
forfeit  their  own  self-respect  and  the  respeet 
of  all  true  men,  or  go  to  war.  Those  polit- 
ical and  social  questions  are  dead,  and  so  let 
the  dead  bury  the  dead. 
War  recollections  next. 


191 


XXIII 

DAYS  OF  SECESSION 

HEN  the  state  voted  on  seces- 
sion, I  did  not  vote;  but  when 
the  majority  elected  to  go  out 
of  the  Union,  I  accepted  the 
situation  and  went  with  them. 
There  were  many  strong,  good  men  in  East 
Tennessee  who  opposed  secession  and  did  what 
they  could  to  prevent  it  by  canvassing  the 
State.  Sullivan  County,  which  included  the 
Blountville  Circuit,  was  for  J  secession  by  a 
large  majority,  and  at  the  first  call  of  the 
State  began  to  enlist  volunteers.  These  State 
troops  were  later  transferred  to  the  Con- 
federacy. Fort  Sumter  fell  about  this  time. 
The  fight  was  on,  and  Southern  blood  was 
getting  hot.  Messrs.  Andrew  Johnson  and 
T.  A.  R.  Nelson,  men  of  national  reputation 
and  very  popular — one  an  old  Whig  and  the 
other  a  Democrat — were  canvassing  the  State 
for  "neutrality" — i.  e.,  for  Tennessee  to  take 
no  part  in  the  strife.  They  had  an  appoint- 
ment  to   speak   at    Blountville   on   a   certain 


192 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


day.  The  citizens  of  the  town  and  country 
around  did  not  want  them  to  come;  so  they 
called  a  citizens'  meeting  in  the  courthouse 
two  days  before  the  speaking  was  to  be,  and 
decided  to  write  the  gentlemen  not  to  come, 
fearing  trouble  might  grow  out  of  it.  This 
was  done,  and  the  letter  was  sent  to  Union 
(Bluff  City),  supposing  the  speakers  would 
come  by  rail  from  Jonesboro  and  get  it. 
Early  on  the  morning  of  the  day  for  the  speak- 
ing men  began  to  come  in  from  all  around, 
some  with  squirrel  guns  and  some  with  shot 
guns  and  a  good  deal  of  whisky.  It  was  a 
crowd  that  promised  trouble.  By  about  nine 
it  was  reported  that  the  speakers  were  not 
coming  by  Union,  but  directly  through  from 
Jonesboro  by  private  conveyance,  and  would 
not,  therefore,  get  the  letter.  Here  I  became 
connected  with  the  affair.  It  was  apparent 
that  there  would  be  trouble,  if  the  men  came  on 
to  speak,  and  that  our  town  would  be  perhaps 
disgraced  and  the  speakers,  who  were  my 
friends,  probably  abused.  All  this  must  be 
prevented  if  possible.  So  I  went  to  Mr. 
Samuel  Rhea,  who  had  been  the  chairman 
of  the  town  meeting,  and  told  him  my  fears. 
He  was  with  me,  and  said:     "How  can  we 


193 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

prevent  it  ?"  I  asked:  "Have  you  a  copy  of 
the  letter  sent?"  "Yes,"  he  replied.  Then 
said  I:  "Get  a  copy  of  it  ready  while  I  get 
my  horse,  and  I  will  meet  the  gentlemen  with 
it."  And  so  it  was  done.  The  crowd  saw 
me  start  and  knew  for  what  I  went,  and  some 
of  them  were  impatient  with  me  for  going.  I 
met  the  men  some  two  miles  out  from  the 
town,  both  in  the  same  buggy.  They  read  the 
letter  and  after  a  moment  said,  "We  do  not 
want  to  speak  if  the  people  do  not  want  us  to," 
and  then  added,  "But  if  a  majority  want  us  to 
speak,  we  think  we  ought  to  be  allowed  to 
do  so  without  interruption.  Can  you  guaran- 
tee that  ?"  I  then' told  them  frankly  just  how 
I  became  connected  with  the  unpleasant  affair 
and  of  the  state  of  public  feeling  in  town  and 
why  I  had  come  to  meet  them.  Mr.  Nelson's 
son,  David,  and  son-in-law,  Mr.  Samuel 
Cunningham,  both  young  friends  of  mine, 
were  with  them.  After  a  few  words  of  con- 
sultation they  said:  "Take  the  boys  and  go 
on  before  us  and  get  the  wishes  of  the  people 
and  bring  us  word.  We  will  stop  at  Sturn's 
Hotel,  at  this  end  of  the  town;  and  if  the  people 
do  not  want  us  to  speak,  we  will  go  on  to  Kings- 
port."     The  young  men  and  I  hurried  on; 


194 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


and  from  the  steps  of  the  courthouse  I  told 
the   crowd,   which   came   running,   what  the 
gentlemen  said.     We  took  the  vote,  and  only 
four  wanted  them  to  speak.     We  reported, 
and  the  speakers  went  on  to  Kingsport.     Now, 
if  this  matter  had  ended  there,  it  never  would 
have  been  written  here.     But  when  the  war 
closed,  five  years  after  this,  and  the  days  of 
reconstruction    came,    I    was    a    refugee    in 
Virginia.     But  I  was  indicted  in  the  court  at 
Blountville  for  treason,   for  heading  a  mob 
who    kept    Andrew    Johnson    and    Thomas 
Nelson    from    speaking — the    day    and    date 
given.     And   I   was   kept  out  of  my  native 
State  for  two  years  before  the  hateful  thing 
was   dropped   from   the    docket.     This   is    a 
part  of  an  old   man's   recollections  hard   to 
forget.     It    shows    the    condition    of   society 
in  East  Tennessee  in  those  days  of  reconstruc- 
tion,  so-called — days  of  relentless   hate  and 
bitter  cruelty  and  revenge  and  robbery,  rapine 
and  murder.     There  were  many  good  men  who 
were  Union  men  in  the  country,  but  they  were 
almost    powerless    to    prevent    this    state    of 
things.     They  might  have  done  a  little  better 
than  they  did,  maybe,  if  they  had  tried  hard. 
But  let  it  be  written  as  history  that  it  was  not 


195 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

i 

the  men  who  wore  the  blue  and  the  gray 
and  stood  on  the  firing  line  in  the  day  of 
battle  who  did  those  dastardly  things.  No; 
it  was  whelps  from  another  kennel,  who 
cowardly  came  out  after  the  killing  was  over, 
with  the  instincts  of  a  hyena  to  get  what  they 
could  out  of  the  offal.  I  will  not  particularize 
the  numerous  fiendish  acts  that  characterized 
and  disgraced  the  times.  Let  them  go  un- 
named and  be  forgotten. 

I  must  mention  an  incident  that  made  us 
all  smile  when  it  was  related  to  us.  Aunt 
Betsey  Charlton,  a  dear,  good  old  soul,  came 
to  town  the  morning  for  the  speaking,  and  was 
at  the  parsonage.  She  was  much  troubled 
over  the  situation,  fearing  somebody  might  do 
wrong  or  get  hurt  and  mischief  befall  us  all. 
So  she  watched  the  streets;  and  when  the  young 
men  and  I  came  into  town  and  went  upon  the 
courthouse  steps  and  all  the  crowd  came 
running,  she  was  greatly  excited.  She  kept 
her  eyes  upon  us,  but  could  not  hear  what  we 
said.  In  taking  the  vote  of  the  people  I  re- 
quested all  to  squat  down  and  vote  by  rising. 
Well,  when  Aunt  Betsey  saw  them  all  get  down 
in  the  street  she  almost  shouted,  saying: 
"It  is  all  right  now;  Brother  Sullins  has  got 

196 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


them  all  down  at  prayers."     Prayer  was  Aunt 
Betsey's  cure  for  everything. 

After  the  fall  of  Fort  Sumter  the  enlisting 
of  volunteers  went  on  more  lively.  I  kept  up 
my  appointments,  and  the  enthusiastic  enlist- 
ers  would  sometimes  make  their  appointments 
to  meet  the  people  at  the  same  time.  After 
preaching  they  would  invite  all  out  into  the 
churchyard,  make  brief  talks,  sing  patriotic 
songs,  beat  an  old  drum  used  at  the  militia 
musters  years  before,  and  call  for  volunteers. 
I  heard  "Dixie"  now  for  the  first  time.  Of 
course,  I  caught  the  spirit  and  helped  to  rally. 
Soon  two  companies  were  enrolled  and  organ- 
ized. Of  one  A.  L.  Gammon  was  captain 
and  James  A.  Rhea,  Robert  L.  Blair,  and 
James  Charlton,  lieutenants.  Of  the  other, 
James  P.  Snapp  was  qaptain;  and  Charles 
St.  John,  George  Hull,  and  John  M.  Jones, 
lieutenants.  These  companies  were  soon 
called  to  Knoxville.  And  now  came  the  try- 
ing time.  I  was  asked  to  go  along  and  preach 
for  and  look  after  the  boys.  My  stewards 
said  they  would  get  the  local  preachers  to  take 
care  of  the  circuit;  and  wife,  having  a  brother 
and  many  friends  going,  said  she  would  stay 
with  her  father  if  I  wanted  to  go.     In  fact, 


197 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

she  was  about  the  worst  rebel  among  us, 
and  never  got  over  it  entirely.  The  companies 
marched  out  of  town  about  noon,  wife  and  I, 
with  the  two  little  boys,  following  in  a  buggy. 
Many  friends  accompanied  us  a  few  miles, 
then  said  good-bye  and  went  back.  O, 
the  heartache,  the  tears,  the  anxiety  and 
prayers  of  that  hour!  and  how  all  this  would 
have  been  intensified  many  times  could  we 
have  known  the  fact,  as  it  turned  out,  that 
many  of  us  would  never  come  back!  That 
hour  will  always  be  a  part  of  an  old  man's 
recollections.  We  spent  that  night  in  Bluff 
City  (Union  then).  Having  no  tents,  we  slept 
about  in  the  houses  and  at  the  depot.  Of 
course  our  lunch  baskets  were  well  filled  by 
loved  ones  left  behind;  we  had  plenty  to  eat. 
Next  morning  all  took  train  for  Knoxville. 
Wife  and  I  stopped  with  her  parents  at  Jones- 
boro.  Here  I  remained  a  few  days,  and 
then  went  on  to  Knoxville  to  join  the  boys. 
I  found  them  out  on  the  old  Fair  Grounds, 
east  of  the  city,  with  eight  other  companies, 
ready  to  be  organized  into  a  regiment.  These 
companies  were  all  from  East  Tennessee — two 
from  Sullivan  County,  two  from  Hamilton,  one 
from  Knox,  one  from  Rhea,  one  from  Wash- 

198 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


ington,  one  from  Polk,  one  from  Hawkins, 
one  from  McMinn.  The  regiment  was  organ- 
ized in  a  few  days  and  numbered  Nineteenth 
Tennessee.  The  following  were  the  officers 
elected:  David  H.  Cummings,  colonel;  Frank 
M.  Walker,  lieutenant-colonel;  Abe  Fulkerson, 
major;  V.  Q.  Johnson,  adjutant;  H.  Mell 
Doak,  sergeant-major;  Dr.  Joe  E.  Dulany, 
surgeon;  A.  D.  Taylor,  quartermaster;  and 
Rev.  D.  Sullins,  chaplain.  The  number, 
all  told,  in  the  regiment  was  one  thousand  and 
sixty.  Now  we  began  camp-life  in  earnest. 
The  companies  were  formed  into  messes  of 
from  four  to  six.  Each  mess  had  one  tent,  tin 
plates,  cups,  and  cooking  utensils;  each  man 
had  a  blanket,  canteen,  knapsack  and  haver- 
sack. 


199 


XXIV 

NINETEENTH  TENNESSEE 
REGIMENT 

N  the  last  chapter  I  was  perhaps 
tiresome  in  giving  so  minutely 
the  organization  and  outfit  of 
the  regiment;  but  I  thought  that 
jjgglj  young  readers  might  be  inter- 
ested in  knowing  how  their  fathers  and  grand- 
fathers went  to  war.  The  regiment  organized, 
the  business  now  was  to  drill  day  in  and  day 
out.  It  was  now  the  middle  of  June,  and  the 
authorities  thought  there  ought  to  be  some 
soldiers  at  Cumberland  Gap  to  hold  that 
point  and  keep  an  eye  on  Kentucky  and 
see  what  was  going  on  over  there.  Soon 
two  companies,  one  from  Chattanooga  and 
the  other  from  Knoxville,  were  ordered  to  the 
Gap  under  the  command  of  their  captains, 
Powell  and  Paxton.  I  went  with  them,  as 
there  were  plenty  of  preachers  at  Knoxville, 
and  none  at  the  Gap.  We  went  by  rail  to 
Morristown,  and  by  the  old  historic  pioneer 
road  to  Bean's  Station,  where  Bishop  Asbury 
used    to    meet    his    guards    and    pilots    from 


200 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


Kentucky  to  accompany  him  over  the  Clinch 
and  through  the  Gap  into  the  "dark  and 
bloody  ground.''  At  the  station  the  boys  had 
quite  an  ovation.  The  neighbors  had  pre- 
pared a  barbecue,  and  gave  them  a  hearty 
reception.  Of  course  the  boys  gave  them 
specimens  of  their  soldierly  marching,  while 
our  little  band  gave  them  music.  We  spent 
the  night  at  the  big  sulphur  spring  at  the  foot 
of  the  Clinch.  Next  day  we  went  on  to 
the  Gap.  The  boys  stopped  at  the  spring 
at  the  foot;  but  I  rode  on  into  the  Gap, 
the  first  soldier  there.  Now  we  were  put 
under  strict  military  regulations.  My  tent 
was  near  the  summit,  where  the  pickets  were 
stationed.  Many  a  sleepless  night  I  listened 
to  the  slow  tread  of  the  sentinel  as  he  walked 
his  beat,  and  heard  him  call,  "Post  Number 
One,  twelve  o'clock,  all's  well."  Here  we 
began  soldier  life  in  earnest.  The  boys  had 
to  go  down  to  the  level  ground  on  the  Ten- 
nessee side  to  drill. 

Soon  after  we  left  Knoxville,  the  other 
companies  belonging  to  the  regiment  were 
sent,  some  to  guard  the  bridge  at  Loudon, 
others  to  Jamestown,  and  four  to  Big  Creek 
Gap  (Lafollette).     It  v  as  not  long  before  all 


201 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

these  companies  were  ordered  to  join  us 
at  the  Gap.  Now  we  had  preaching  every 
Sunday  morning,  Sunday-school  in  the  after- 
noon, and  prayer  meeting  at  night.  The 
restless  boys  soon  had  a  Confederate  flag 
flying  from  the  highest  point  on  the  Virginia 
side.  Something  stirring  was  occurring  almost 
daily  now — the  coming  in  of  other  regiments 
from  Tennessee  and  Mississippi  and  Rut- 
ledge's  Artillery  and  McClung's  Battery  and 
others.  I  remember  the  first  capture  our 
cavalry  made.  Union  men  from  Tennessee 
were  constantly  trying  to  cross  the  mountain 
into  Kentucky.  A  little  squad  of  cavalry 
brought  into  camp  one  day  some  fifteen  or 
twenty  of  these  Union  men,  and  among  them 
Mr.  T.  A.  R.  Nelson,  mentioned  elsewhere, 
all  trying  to  cross  the  mountain.  Mr.  Nelson 
was  our  neighbor  at  Jonesboro;  so  I  went  to 
the  commander  and  asked  the  privilege  of 
having  him  as  my  guest.  This  was  readily 
granted.  And  then  I  remembered  that  his 
son,  Sandy,  was  a  member  of  our  regiment; 
so  I  invited  Sandy  to  spend  the  day  and  take 
dinner  with  his  father  in  the  tent.  I  was  pleas- 
ed to  see  that  there  was  no  reserve  or  em- 
barrassment when  they  met.    Sandy  was  very 


202 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


respectful,  and  Mr.  Nelson  very  fatherly. 
We  talked  of  home  and  old  friends  there  with 
great  frankness.  Mr.  Nelson  was  a  strong, 
honest,  high-toned  gentleman,  and  a  superior 
lawyer.  It  may  be  remembered  that  he  was 
called  to  Washington  to  defend  President 
Johnson  in  his  impeachment  trial.  I  am 
sure  he  had  nothing  to  do  with  indictment 
against  me  for  treason,  mentioned  elsewhere. 
I  was  glad  to  have  the  opportunity  to  enter- 
tain him  at  a  plain  soldier's  dinner. 

The  other  prisoners  were  put  in  the  guard- 
house, a  rough  log  house  with  straw  all  over 
the  dirt  floor.  I  went  to  see  them.  Of 
course  they  were  a  little  shy  at  first;  but  when 
I  told  them  who  I  was  and  that  I  had  come 
to  serve  them  in  any  way  I  could,  they  were 
more  free  and  frank.  After  talking  a  little, 
I  suggested  that  as  it  was  uncertain  when 
they  might  get  home,  I  would  gladly  write 
home  for  any  of  them  if  they  wished  me  to  do 
so.  This  interested  them,  and  we  all  sat  down 
in  the  straw,  they  close  about  me,  and  I  wrote 
as  they  dictated  letters  to  several  of  their 
wives  and  friends.  These  letters  I  mailed  at 
once.  I  wish  now  that  I  had  kept  a  list  of 
their  names,  for  I  might  find  some  member 


203 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

of  some  families  who  would  have  knowledge 
of  the  fact.  I  was  glad  to  serve  them.  They 
were  plain  countrymen,  and  no  doubt  believed 
they  were  doing  right.  They  were  sent  to 
Knoxville  and  I  never  knew  what  became  of 
them.  Mr.  Nelson  got  through  our  lines 
later,  and  went  to  Washington. 

General  Zollicoff  er  came  and  took  command, 
and  on  the  next  day  moved  the  little  army  of 
about  six  thousand  out  into  Kentucky,  to  the 
ford  of  the  Cumberland  River,  some  twenty 
miles  distant.  Soon  the  report  came  that 
Federals  were  establishing  a  camp  at  Bar- 
boursville,  and  Zollicoffer  sent  out  a  detach- 
ment under  Colonel  Battles  to  break  it  up. 
The  enemy  was  found  in  a  cornfield  near  the 
town.  Company  K,  from  Rogersville,  was 
thrown  out  as  a  skirmish  line  and  engaged 
them.  It  was  a  mere  skirmish,  but  made 
memorable  by  the  fact  that  here  we  lost  the 
first  man  out  of  the  regiment,  Robert  Powell, 
first  lieutenant  of  his  company.  He  was  our 
first  soldier  killed  in  battle.  We  sent  his 
remains  home — a  sad  business! 

The  next  little  expedition  was  to  Goose 
Creek  Salt  Works.  Our  Nineteenth  Regi- 
ment,    accompanied     by     Colonel     Carter's 


204 


Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


Cavalry,  was  sent  with  wagons  for  salt. 
I  did  not  go.  The  boys  reported  a  rough, 
hard  trip  of  forty  miles  right  through  the 
mountains,  with  no  fighting.  They  brought 
back  some  two  hundred  bushels  of  salt,  after 
five  days'  absence. 

Next  we  had  a  little  spat  with  General 
Schoeff,  at  Wild  Cat,  or  Rock  Castle,  which 
amounted  to  nothing  but  a  drill  in  warlike 
movements  for  the  boys.  We  returned  to  the 
camp  at  the  ford  of  the  Cumberland,  and 
that  night  there  was  a  sad  accident.  General 
A.  E.  Jackson  was  quartermaster;  but,  being 
absent,  his  son,  Alfred,  had  charge.  Just 
after  we  had  all  gone  to  bed  a  pistol  shot 
was  heard,  and  soon  one  of  the  boys  came  to 
my  tent  and  said:  "Alfred  Jackson  has 
accidentally  shot  himself,  and  is  dead  in  his 
tent."  Here  was  trouble.  "What  shall  we  do 
with  his  remains  ?"  was  the  question.  Gen- 
eral Jackson,  the  father  of  the  deceased, 
was  our  near  neighbor  and  close  friend  at 
Jonesboro.  So  I  said:  "I  must  take  him 
home  to  his  mother.  Prepare  the  body  as 
well  as  you  can,  and  be  ready  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible to  start;  I  will  get  my  horse  and  follow 
the  wagon."     This  was  done,  and  we  started 


205 


Recollections  of  An  Old  Man 

about  eleven  o'clock,  I  guess.  My  horse  fol- 
lowed close  along  behind  the  wagon.  The 
road,  like  all  mountain  roads,  was  full  of 
rocks;  the  night  was  dark,  so  dark  that  at 
times  in  the  deep  gorges  through  which  we 
passed  I  could  not  see  my  horse's  head. 
Both  horse  and  rider  were  tired;  we  had  been 
at  it  all  day.  I  was  exhausted,  sometimes 
nodding  as  I  rode  along,  and  would  have 
nodded  more,  I  expect,  if  we  had  not  been  in 
a  bush-whacking  country,  which  fact  served 
to  keep  me  awake  in  a  measure.  I  thought 
the  wagon  made  a  great  deal  of  noise,  and 
might  wake  up  some  folks  we  did  not  want 
disturbed.  We  pulled  into  Cumberland  just 
after  daylight.  I  was  glad  to  see  the  day  and 
get  on  the  Tennessee  side  of  the  mountain 
again.  That  night  trip  will  always  be  a  part 
of  an  old  man's  recollections  of  the  war. 
We  plodded  on,  and  sometime  up  in  the  day 
stopped  at  the  foot  of  Clinch  for  something 
to  eat — call  it  breakfast.  Then  we  toiled 
on  to  Morristown,  much  in  the  night.  Here  I 
left  my  horse,  the  wagon  went  back,  and  I 
took  a  train  with  the  corpse,  for  Jonesboro, 
where  his  broken  hearted  mother  and  sisters 
met  us.      Of  course,   his  mother  wanted  to 

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look  on  the  dear  face  of  her  soldier  boy. 
But  after  a  good  deal  of  pleading,  I  got  her 
consent  for  me  to  open  the  box,  and,  if  I 
thought  best,  either  let  her  see  it  or  close  it  up. 
We  had  hauled  the  body  in  a  wagon  over 
rough  roads  for  nearly  seventy  miles,  and  I 
did  not  think  it  could  be  in  condition  for  her 
to  see  it.  And  so  I  found  it,  and  she  allowed 
us  to  put  him  away  without  seeing  him.  There 
on  the  high  eastern  hill,  with  his  ancestors, 
we  laid  him  to  rest.  Alfred  Jackson,  the 
deceased,  was  the  father  of  our  Brother 
Alfred  N.  Jackson,  the  presiding  elder  of 
the  Radford  district,  and  a  "soldier  of  the 
cross." 

The  command  was  called  out  of  Kentucky 
in  a  few  days,  and  I  joined  it  at  Big  Creek  Gap. 
This  was  now  in  November,  and  there  was 
snow  all  along  the  Cumberland.  We  block- 
aded the  gap,  and  moved  on  to  Jacksboro. 
Here  I  called  on  General  Jackson,  the  quarter- 
master, and  found  him  overworked  and  very 
nervous.  The  death  of  his  son  was  a  great 
shock  to  him.  An  order  had  been  issued  to 
buy  horses  for  the  army,  and  a  great  many 
were  in  the  yard  for  sale.  After  a  little  talk, 
the  General  asked  me  to  come  and  help  him. 


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Recollections  of  An  Old  Man  . 

I  agreed  to  do  so,  and  went  out  and  bought 
several  horses,  and  took  charge  of  much  of 
the  outside  business  of  the  office.  Soon  we 
moved  down  to  Ross,  near  Clinton.  Sunday 
morning  found  us  camped  at  the  foot  of  the 
mountain.  I  found  a  big  rock,  and  used  it 
as  a  pulpit.  The  boys  around  took  part 
heartily  in  the  services.  We  had  a  good  day, 
well  remembered.  Generals  Zollicoffer  and 
Jackson  went  on  to  Knoxville,  while  we  rested 
here.  Two  days  later  General  Zollicoffer 
returned,  and  issued  orders  to  "Capt.  D. 
Sullins"  to  move  the  army  by  Oliver  Springs 
to  Wartburg  and  on  to  Montgomery.  I 
smiled  when  I  got  the  order  to  "Capt.  D. 
Sullins ;"  it  was  evident  that  the  General  did 
not  know  some  things.  However,  we  put 
things  in  motion,  while  I  looked  hourly  for 
the  coming  of  General  Jackson.  But  as  he 
did  not  come,  I  did  the  best  I  could. 

We  camped  at  Wartburg,  where  the  boys 
got  a  sort  of  sour  Dutch  wine,  which  tasted 
like  stump  water  with  vinegar  in  it.  Some  of 
the  boys  got  drunk  on  it.  Soon  after  we  left 
Wartburg  we  started  up  Cumberland  Moun- 
tain; and  as  General  Jackson  had  not  yet 
come,   I  decided  to  have  a  conference  with 

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Seventy  Years  in  Dixie 


General  Zollicoffer,  who  had  gone  on  before 
us.  I  pushed  on  and  overtook  him  at  the 
old  Indian  Tavern.  I  had  not  met  him  be- 
fore; but  as  soon  as  I  gave  him  my  name> 
he  seemed  to  know  me,  and  was  very  cordial, 
and  began  to  inquire  how  the  wagons  were 
getting  up  the  mountain.  When  I  asked  him 
about  General  Jackson,  he  said:  "Jackson 
is  in  Knoxville,  and  will  not  be  with  us  any 
more;  he  is  post  quartermaster  there."  I 
expressed  surprise  at  this,  and  said:  "What 
are  we  to  do  ?  We  have  no  quartermaster." 
He  replied:  "You  are  quartermaster,  and 
Jackson  said  you  could  do  the  work  as  well 
as  he."  Then  I  began  to  talk.  "General, 
I  am  a  Methodist  preacher,  and  chaplain  of 
the  Nineteenth  Tennessee  Regiment.  Jack- 
son is  my  neighbor  at  Jonesboro;  and  finding 
him  overworked  and  very  nervous  at  Jacks- 
boro,  I  agreed  to  help  him.  That  is  how  I 
became  connected  with  this  office.  I  am 
willing  to  do  all  I  can;  but  from  our  move- 
ments the  last  two  days,  I  take  it  we  are  going 
to  Kentucky,  and  we  have  no  money  to  pay 
for  supplies."  To  this  he  replied  with  earnest- 
ness: "Make  a  requisition  and  send  to 
Knoxville    for    money."     "But,    General,    I 


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